


The Ignitable Few

by RiddleRedCoats



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Bellatrix somehow sorta has a heart of gold in the grand scheme of things, Capitol!Bellatrix, F/M, Harry Potter still has a terrible life, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, In which Tom is a reluctant mentor, In which almost every decent Weasley dies because its the Hunger Games, M/M, Multi, Nice Smut and not so nice smut, Prostitution, Revolution, Some internal arguments about the value of society, The Capitol, Unreliable Narrator, Victor!Tom, We love and respect Ginny Weasley in this House, introspection galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-01-16 22:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleRedCoats/pseuds/RiddleRedCoats
Summary: Tom Riddle is a poor, orphan boy from a poorer District that had his luck change when he becomes the Victor for the Second Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games. However, it is only after he wins that he realizes that the Games are never over and he has his work cut out for him; add terrible Tributes mentees, a new escort, the Capitol's machinations, and you have yourself a damn disaster on your hands.Oh, and a Rebellion mounts itself along the way.This is a Hunger Games AU of a different variety, with a Capitol!Bellatrix and Victor/Mentor!Tom and then a Rebellion led by a veritable Boy-Who-Lived instead of a Girl-On-Fire.





	1. Tom Riddle, the Quarter Quell Victor

**Author's Note:**

> An anon asked for a Bellamort Hunger Games AU and it spiraled into this. I dunno if this is what you had in mind but damn it, I hope you like it. 
> 
> I thought about doing a proper Hunger Games AU with Bellatrix and Tom both in the Arena, but it didn’t fit my version of these characters; Bellatrix has the career district backstory down pat, and Tom is definitely a Twelve District boy. I tried writing some of it but it didn’t jive the way I wanted it.
> 
> Also, I played a lot with the prostitution part of the Games that Haymitch hints at in Mokingjay, which is where the trigger warning comes from. The implication of rape comes from that too, and it’s not explicitly described.
> 
> Also this was meant to be one single chapter, but when i hit 30,000 words and still had a lot more to say it was obvious that it had to be splited. Also, my other fic will be updated, eventualy once I get this one out of my head. I blame the anon who prompted me.

* * *

** _THE 50th HUNGER GAMES_ **

** _SECOND QUARTER QUELL_ **

* * *

The Reaping day of a Quarter Quell.

The very concept sent chills down the spine of every citizen in Panem, they hadn’t forgotten what it meant, that _they_ fashioned its existence for a reason… A country defied their government, lost and instead of liberation; a District, destroyed and The Hunger Games, created.

Fifty-Years after the fighting, dying, surviving for a taste of freedom and for their troubles that reaping day was the day that the Capitol would pick children for the _honour_of being named a ‘Victor’ in a memorable spectacle of having double the normal amount of children murdering each other, Live, for the whole country to see.

‘Despicable’, ‘Inhuman’, ‘Abominable’, were treasonous words whispered in private or not dared said aloud, for the consequences of it were far steeper than the rewards it might sow. Well, words thought by those in the lower Districts; the higher Districts merely saw the odds for glory double before their eyes and the Capitol? Well, the Capitol only saw the double amount of people to cheer for.

_That_ was the mood of the country for the Fiftieth Hunger Games. 

District Twelve was a desolate place surrounded by forbidden woods. ‘_Smallest of all Districts, poorest of all Districts_’, was the easiest and most accurate way to describe this particular District; which was divided in four parts: The Seam where the poorest lived and the mines resided, The Hob that was fashioned as a Black market of sorts, The Market where the merchants lived, and the Victor’s uninhabited Village. Since the Dark Days – the Days of the Rebellion – District Twelve had had the least food, the least warmth, the least luxuries, the worst _odds _in the whole damn country.

It wasn’t_ just_ _because_, of course. District Twelve, during the Dark Days, had been the last one to surrender, the District that had provided the bulk of the Rebellion’s army. They had lost many men, women, and even children during the war, and in the end, when District Thirteen had been obliterated, well, there was nothing the remaining people in Twelve could do but surrender and go back to work.

District Twelve’s industry – coal mining – was important but not essential. A fact made abundantly clear when, after they had gone back under Capitol control, the Government had closed half the mines, slashing work and wages in half and dooming almost every family in the Seam, and consequently the whole District. Fifty-Years on and it wasn’t much better, people were now used to it and had simply submitted to their fates.

Well, almost everyone, that is.

Tom Riddle was tall for his age, sixteen and almost 1,80m, he was taller than every boy in the District. He was handsome too, he knew that, since every girl from The Seam to the Market seemed to throw themselves at him. Fine dark wavy hair, clipped on the sides and brushed back on top keeping it off his angled face; his deep-set eyes were nearly black, and with the right intonation could easily sway most people; thin lips, resting down a refined nose, constantly set in a stoic expression with high-gaunt cheekbones complementing the rest of his handsome features. More surprising was his pale-white skin, more synonymous with the Capitol than District Twelve.

There was a reason for that and as with everything that went wrong in his life, it was his mother’s fault.

Tom’s mother… Well, she had been the biggest fool Tom had ever encountered. His mother had been part of the Capitol, had been part of one family that had allied itself with President Grindelwald and put an end to the Rebellion. She had been wealthy, privileged, had never gone to bed hungry but then had turned around and followed a handsome baker into District Twelve… It had, predictably, led to disaster.

His father had _mysteriously_ died before they could ever get married. His father’s family had never liked his mother and threw her out on the street, pregnant and with nothing but the clothes on her back. A Community Home had taken her in, sure that she’d die in childbirth and he’d remain there. It would have been better if she had died. But she hadn’t, and out on the street they were again.

He had grown up in the streets, hungry and cold and yearning for so much more. His mother had never even tried, she really hadn’t, refusing to sell herself to anyone on the account that she was better than that, and her family would come save her. In the end it had all been for naught, for when he was six, his mother fell ill and promptly died, finally leaving him to the Community Home that had always known he’d be back.

It had been ten long years since he lived there, and ‘poor’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

A decaying building that the District would never be able to renovate; build of rotten dark wood, the pale blue paint had started peeling about fifteen-years ago and no one had ever bothered to repaint it; the doors and floors creaked if you so much breathed on them; mould covered walls and corners, many kids got sick beyond healing when in the Winter the scent and the hunger made them touch and even eat the fungus.

That, was only the beginning.

There were not enough rooms. Not in the least; the matron of the Home tried to split them by age, but even so there were not enough quarters. In the Winter, the young kids shared their beds with the older ones, and in the Summer, when the heat was too unbearable, most of the teens slept outside. At least, outside they had a little space for themselves.

And if there were not enough rooms, then there was certainly not enough water for everyone. If you wanted to bathe more than once a month you had to fight for it, trade with everything you could so your own smell wouldn’t cause you queasiness, and even if you managed to trade in for a bath… Well, ‘bath’, was a generous word for having icy, cold water poured down your head from a bucket.

No rooms, no water and certainly no food. If the rest of the District was starving, then so were they, the food they were given by the Capitol wasn’t enough to feed half the kids. So, most teens had resorted to poaching in the close-by woods for food. Tom, himself had never gone, for he had another way to get food.

The kids in the Community Home were obliged to go to school until they turned twelve. Once they were eligible to enter the Games, the community had decided that they were also fit to work in the mines, because, really who was going to protest that kids were going to the mine when they had their own families to worry about. The orphans were sons of no ones, and no one would care for them.

Most teens choose to stay in school and poach in the Woods, because as long as you brought _something _to the Home, they let you spend the night and use the facilities, if nothing else. Some, those who would never dream of defying the Capitol or were too cowardly to do so, went and worked in the mines.

As usual, Tom was different. 

Oh, Tom worked in the mines too, well to be precise, he worked _for _the mines. He always had a mind for numbers, in school his teacher had been vastly impressed, so he’d studied ahead, finished school early and he had used that talent to impress the foreman. He did the numbers and the paperwork for the Capitol, the youngest accountant ever. He did get better payed than his housemates, although not by much, and since he was still too young to be able to live alone, he sent the Home the same money the others did. The rest? That, he kept for himself.

In retrospect, not working _in_ the mines was a mistake because since he didn’t work with a pickaxe or with explosives, now he was at the same disadvantage that the other kids picked for the Hunger Games were. 

Because, yes, despite being tall, handsome, and intelligent, Tom Riddle was also a Tribute of the Second Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games. So there was that too, he supposed.

The reaping, which had ended four-hours ago, had been as terrible as it could be. With twice as many children being chosen, there were double the families being ripped apart. Well, it would have been if Tom had had a family; as it was, only three families had been broken that day.

First, Poppy Pomphrey had been called; a seventeen-year-old merchant girl, she tended to the wounded in her father’s apothecary. Sad whispers had gone on when she’d been picked since she was always presumed to take over her father’s place as a healer and now, now she would never be able to. Without her, the District _would_ suffer until Poppy’s father could train another.

Next, Rolanda Hooch. She was young, twelve-years-old, a Seam’s girl through and through, tanned skin, black-hair and grey-eyes as were most people from that part of the District. She was too young, and soft cries erupted in the streets. Her family was desolate; she wouldn’t last long. She could run, but that was about that, she was far too weak to be able to do anything else.

From the boys, first had been called Newt Scamander; an awkward fifteen-year-old kid that spent more time with animals than people. There was something inherently wrong with the boy, always living in his own world, but he had become some sort of District mascot. There were sobs when his named was called.

And finally, the last name called, the final one of forty-eight kids; Tom Riddle, an orphan boy from District Twelve. There would be no one to mourn him, no one to claim his body should he die. There were actual sighs of relief when his name had been called, his beauty didn’t grant him any favours when he was up against cousins and brothers and sons. Molly Prewett was particularly loud in her relief – it made sense since her boyfriend’s name had been in the bowl 47 times – and Tom had the urge to snap her neck in two.

Those were the Tributes from District Twelve for the 50th Hunger Games. The cards were all dealt, now what was left to see was how the Game would go. And yet, despite the eminent doom the other kids in the Train travelling to the Capitol were feeling now, Tom was exorbitantly calm.

There had always been something inside of him just waiting for a spark to burn. Ignitable, his mother had called him before she died in a pool of her own filth and blood. And he was ready to burn, ready to reduce everyone that stood in his way to ashes.

The others might be faster, better, stronger… But Tom? Tom was clever. And there was nothing more dangerous than a clever man with nothing to lose.

* * *

**_THE 64th HUNGER GAMES_**

* * *

Run.

Run. Hide.

Run. Hide. Don’t breathe.

Hide. Run. Don’t breathe. Hide. Hide. Run. Hide. Run. Don’t breathe.

Don’t breathe.

Don’t _breathe_.

Don’t**_ breathe._**

Tom shot up off the bed with a start, with a yell, breathing heavily, chest heaving under the strain of the lack of air in his lung and the loud yell that would have woken a whole neighbourhood if he didn’t live alone in the Victors’ Village in Twelve.

Because that’s where he was; he was in Twelve, at home, living in the Victor’s Village after having become the Victor for the Second Quarter Quell.

Tom exhaled, and relaxed, leaning back in the bed, wrapped in thin sheets that had entangled all around him during his nightmare. With a jump he was out of bed and into the bathroom to take a shower and start the day. A few turns in around the mirror let him see the near flawless skin of his body. Many Victors chose to keep their scares, but not Tom. Tom wanted to forget about from before and during the Games. He had won, he was Victor and that was enough. But if he looked hard enough he could almost still fill the phantom pain where one of the Careers – Rubeus Hagrid, District One – had stabbed him in the back. And further down, on his caffs were the scars that would never be erased. Lightning scars decorated his feet to his caffs, stretching out from where an electrified weapon had swept at him while he finished off the last tribute – the troublesome Hagrid.

For that day, the day of the 64th Reaping, he let himself recall his Games. He stepped into the shower just as the memories rushed forward to his mind.

He knew he would have never reached the Cornucopia on time, too thin and too weak to for it. So, while the Bloodbath took place, he picked up one of the strangler backpacks and ran all the way away from the field of flowers he had emerged from. 

A couples kilometres away from the bloodbath and in the Woods that from what Tom remembered where equal to those that bordered home, he knelt and emptied his backpack. He had lucked out, enough food to last him a week considering how little he ate and a large bottle of water. No weapons, though.

It had been a blessing, really. He’d never be able to wield any weapon competently enough to compete with the other Tributes. So, his bare hands had been his weapon.

That, and his brain.

He had settled down for the night and made a plan.

First, he had played the groups; he had attacked at night, snapping the neck of whichever one stood watch or poisoning the food and water. Then, he let the group tear itself from the inside out trying to figure out whom had betrayed whom. And once the group finished fighting and there was only one left, Tom swooped in and killed whoever that was, taking their supplies along the way

It was when he was _playing _the last group that Hagrid - giant boy, really, even bigger than Tom was - had stabbed Tom in the back with a knife. Tom barely escaped with his life, and Hagrid was left as a loose end, and the favourite to win.

He had been stumped with no more groups to play, but he found an answer soon enough. In the Cornucopia, while coming back for medicine for the nasty gash on his back he had noticed something odd in the artificially created water surrounding the structure. He had laid down on the side of rock there, and watched baffled as blood taimted the whole arena briefly. In exploring, he found out there was a little hole in the side of the rock, and in experimenting with it, while putting sand in the hole he found out that it tainted the whole water surface with sand.

A smirk that was most unbecoming spread across his face.

_That_, he could use.

So as a finisher, he used his secret weapon; drawing out everyone to the water had been a challenge, but he had managed after a few well-placed traps, and once everyone was in the water he emitted a surge of poison coming from one of the many plants with the help of the Arena’s glitch, contaminating the water enough so that everyone had been dead or too weak to fight him off while he snapped their necks. 

Of course, it wasn’t _that _easy, Hagrid had stayed awake and more-or-less strong. It was a one-on-one that Tom had been doomed to lose, especially after being swept off his feet by an electrified spear. But then, in a sheer effort that came from his will to live, Tom had grabbed the spear at the last second and pushed it and a puzzled Hagrid into the lake where the boy had died electrified.

And that was that, Tom as declared a Victor from District Twelve.

Fourteen years later and a surge of elation still rushed through him as he finished getting dressed - a nice, normal suit that would annoy the hell out of his newest escort. A knock on his door, forced him to hasten his hands.

Something was wrong, no one ever came to his home, ever, preferring to let him be by himself as he enjoyed life.

He went downstairs just as the knocking became almost insistent. He opened the door, ready with an exasperated ‘What!’ that died in his throat just as the door swung back and, instead of a platoon of Peacekeeper or Mayor Lovegood as he’d been expecting, was a Capitol woman.

Dressed in what Tom was sure was the new fashion, the woman looked like a clown; heavy white make-up, eyelashes clad with little stones at the end, wig – because Gods almighty, it _had _to be wig – of a sea-green colour, tight hot pink dress and heels the same colour as her hair… Clown was an understatement.

Then she cleared her throat to speak, and instead of the high-pitched voice he had been expecting, a low but lilted timbre bounced in his ears. 

“I’m Bellatrix, your new escort.”

He scoffed. Another pretty little thing that would soon fall on his cock and be sent on her way. That was the way with all the escorts. They come, pun intended, and they go. His former escort was now in District Five, having been promoted when she had tired of him fucking her and then never calling or paying any attention to her besides that. It was a shame; she had been dumb as rocks and easy enough to fool.

Still, he tilted his head, this one was pretty, even with all that caked on Capitol make-up on her face. Small, perky little nose, perfectly sculpted lips, elegant neck, small breasts, but he always liked asses better, and if her legs were anything to go by… Well, she could be his type quite easily.

“Hmm, pet,” he always liked to call them any name but their own because it annoyed them, and this one was no exception, if her scowl was anything to go by, “you won’t last a year.”

Her eyes narrowed and when he finally caught sight of them, his heart almost skipped a beatt. They were grey, nearly white, flashing with anger and distrust and a hint of lust. His own eyes narrowed at her, not willing to give her the satisfaction of catching him off guard. He had never seen eyes like hers, and he was sure the makeup was hiding most of their beauty; the Capitol’s relish for exuberance striking again.

“I’d thank you to call me by name, Tom.”

“Mister Riddle.”, He growled without really thinking of the consequences, and he promptly regreted it. He had given her an opening.

“Oh,” she smirked, and he almost hung his head, “how fun now that the tables have turned.”

She was clever on the uptake, he’d give her that. Still, he wasn’t a man to be intimidated; he had faced the Arena he could very well face her.

“Well then, _pet_,” he stressed, and wasn’t the least surprised to see her smirking, “what are you doing here? Escorts don’t come to my house.”

“Well, _Tom_,” he smirked back, this one had a backbone, “I’ve heard horror stories from some escorts on how some Victors are a menace to deal with, but I trust there is no issue here.”

“Oh, pet, there can be a lot of _thrusting. _All you need to do is ask.”

It was vulgar. Absolutely not his style when seducing his escorts, but this one looked like a woman who really needed something vulgar to take the edge off, hell, she looked she had never even thought of anything _vulgar_, and he really couldn’t resist railing her up. Instead of sputtering words, sounds of indignation, or a ruby red colour flaming her cheeks – not that he would have been able to see it, mind – she merely issued a ‘hmm’ as if she was considering. He watched as she looked at him from head to toe, a hungry look in her uncanny eyes.

“I’d consider it,” she spoke sincerely, “if only you weren’t so much more handsome on TV.”

“Liar.” He rebutted quickly, a little baffled by her rapid swings.

Her hand started fiddling with his tie, the look in her eyes pure sex and Tom was surprised to find that he had been wrong. This woman was anything but innocent, she might feign it well, but she had a lewd _edge_. And fuck, he wanted to taste it. He leaned forward and watched her lick her lips.

She smirked, “Perhaps, but I don’t sleep with the people I work with. At least,” she leaned in further and he could see down her cleavage, maybe not that small after all, “not until I’m sure they can do their jobs without me babysitting.”

Well, now he was insulted.

“I’ve been doing this job for 14 years, pet, I think I can manage alone.” He answered acerbically

She hummed, unimpressed, “And yet, you’ve never won a game.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tom was sure his eyes flashed, because here she did take a step back, as if afraid of him.

Good.

“Perhaps. But my condition remains.”

Oh, sleeping with her was at the bottom of his list, now. He’d rather sleep with the President, for all this banter was worth.

“Yes, well, I don’t sleep with clowns.”

He watched with a mild sense of satisfied as she took yet another step back. She looked a little – well, hurt was a bit much, so – miffed by his insult. But she recovered pretty quick.

“And yet you slept with Charity Burbage…” she smirked, back on her game, “I didn’t take you for a liar, Tom.”

He snorted, he couldn’t help it. Charity was his last escort, and yes, she was even more clownish than Bellatrix. That he and Charity had been sleeping together was no secret, the crazy woman had practically announced it to the whole Panem during an interview, not _officially _of course but enough for Capitols to read between the lines. Still, he wasn’t about to let his new escort have the last word.

“Oh, but I am.” He leaned down, his nose almost touching hers, a sneer on his lips, “A liar and thief. You better be careful, _pet._”

It was true, too. He was both. He lied constantly over how everything made him feel – nothing, he had never felt anything other than the striving need for success – and as for stealing? Well, his job at the mine had only come when he was 12. Before that, he had happily stolen everything he could get his hands on to get some food in his belly.

“I’m not really afraid of liars and thieves, Tom,” she looked at him, and yes, he saw no fear, “Just… Don’t screw me over and I don’t screw you over. Simple as that.”

He sneered one last time, “Fine. Deal.”

He turned back and closed the door to his house behind him. He needed no luggage, the train and the penthouse in the city had everything he wanted. He quickly started walking towards town, Bellatrix not far behind him. He was almost impressed she could keep up with him in her impossibly high heels.

Still, they managed to reach the town centre, where the Reaping would take place just in time to start with the ceremony.He watched the kids as they looked at Bellatrix with open hostility or distress, he was expecting her to stumble through her words at the open vitriol like every other escort had. Instead, she delivered the speech, same as it was every year, with no theatrics and no nonsense.

It was actually refreshing for a change.

As the propaganda videos started rolling, and Bellatrix sat down next to him to wait her turn to speak again, he went back to remembering the rest of his Games.

During the winning interview, he had called the whole thing easy. However, if he was _pressed _he would admit that the gash on his back had been so bad he had almost wished for death. Almost. In the end, he’d played the orphan card hard enough to gain sympathy from the Head Gamemaker to announce the Feast that had not only given him medicine but also the idea to kill the rest Tributes.

That little idea had cost him a lot more than what the medicine was actually worth, though. He almost wished he had figured out another way to win, because while recaps had called his idea ‘clever’, the Capitol had deemed it ‘traitorous’.

Tom had made fools of them; taking advantage of their glitch to kill the favourites to win. Oh, he knew that he had not been the favourite to win by a long shot, he had charmed the Capitol a little during the interviews but as the last of 48 different children it was hard to make an impression.

So not only had he made a fool out of the Capitol, he had also derailed the Games. He had been ecstatic when he won until he went back home that is. Now, Tom Riddle was never one to worry himself with someone who wasn’t himself, so really the Capitol had been stumped as to whom they would punish for his… disobedience.

But in the end they had managed; setting the Community Home on fire was not exactly subtle, but it had the desired effect of putting everyone in the District against him, because surely he had done something in the Capitol that had warranted that attack. It hadn’t however, been enough to put him in line. He had never cared for anyone in the Home, anyway. So, they went for his grandparents next, once they found out who they were. To be honest, _that _had only made the Capitol endear itself to Tom, he just wished he had gotten there first.

Still, Tom had never really wanted to step out of line. He had everything he could ever want; he was feared, would never be homeless or hungry again, he had fame and fortune and all the women, books and luxuries he could want. He had no desire to Rebel. So he let himself settle in his own corner.

And now every year during the Summer he was dragged up t the Capitol to watch some kid from his District die and then be looked at with disgust by the people in the town square, because once again he hadn’t managed to bring a kid home. Not that he minded, he liked being the only Victor of Twelve. It was a prestige he was unwilling to share. So, yes, as long as he could manage it, the Tributes would never win. And he didn’t even have to do anything, the changes of Twelve winning were always as low as it got.

Speaking of, the part of the ceremony where he would see the Tributes that wouldn’t make it home this year.

“Ladies, first.” Bellatrix said, confident no wobble in her voice as she read the death sentence of some girl. With a flick of her wrist, simple with no pomposity, she took a slip of paper and read, “Angelina Johnson.”

A black-skinned girl walked forward, sure and steady. She might have had what it took, had Tom been interested in making her a Victor. The girl climbed the platform and stood next to Bellatrix, who at least made sure she was settled before moving quickly to the other bowl.

“And now, the gentlemen.” She wasn’t terribly good at this, she built no suspense as she took the first slip of paper she encountered, she quickly opened the slip and read, “William Weasley.”

Tom had to suppress the smirk and a joyous laugh when Molly Weasley – formerly Prewett – wailed at having her eldest son be picked to participate in the Games. He watched Arthur hold her close to him, a five-year-old girl in their arms. How dumb they were, with that girl it made _seven_ kids. Those were a lot of mouths to feed. Hell, their eldest going to the Games was probably a blessing.

He watched as Bellatrix presented both kids again and then led them to the Justice building where they would have their goodbyes. He watched Molly and her clan wait outside her son’s room, each waiting for a turn to speak with the Weasley kid that wouldn’t return.

He wondered what those conversations were like. He never had one his time around; no family or friends to wish him good luck, to beg him to stay alive, to… do whatever it was they did there.

He leaned against the doorway of the floor and this time, a memory after his Games resurfaced.

In his first year as a mentor during the Games, he had gotten out of the Training Centre to do some exploring of his past. If his family – his _mother’s _family – was alive, they would want to meet their grandson and their nephew, the Victor of the Second Quarter Quell.

He had spent some time in a library and when nothing had been found, he started digging deeper, finding several forbidden books that he would have to get later if only to starve off the solitude and boredom of Twelve. And then, he found some mention of his mother’s family, a few months before his birth.

As far as it said, his grandfather had denounced his mother but had then mysteriously died alongside his uncle, the last of their line, in a fire that had taken everything the Gaunts had ever owned. In the end, funny as it was, he had had more as a Riddle than he ever would have had as a Gaunt. He decided to leave Gaunt behind for good and merely embrace Riddle as his last name. There was no one left to claim it with his grandparents, anyway. Might as well make a new, better legacy with no baggage of the history to cling to.

He was pulled out of his stupor by a Peacekeeper stepping up to him.

“Sir, we have to leave.”

Tom hummed and moved outside into the waiting car, Bellatrix and the Tributes were already expecting him. He listened with one ear as Bellatrix tried to explain to the kids that seeing them crying wouldn’t be helpful to gather sponsors.

If he was a little surprised that she knew about that when she was virtually as new to the Games as the Tributes were, then he didn’t show it. It seemed that he would have to do a little digging around about his escort as soon as he got to the Capitol, no one was this knowledgeable and this calm on their first try.

The full day train ride was as it usually was; desperate Tributes who didn’t stand a chance asking him for advice they would never live long enough to use. As it was he did try; stay away from the Cornucopia, find water, and stay alive. Rare was the Tribute that followed his advice.

As soon as they arrived at the Capitol and the Parade was over, where his Tributes had predictably been dressed as coal miners, the Tributes had gone to bed and Bellatrix had went Gods knew where, Tom descended from the penthouse – which was Twelve’s base of operation – to the eleventh floor where a glass of whiskey and decent conversation was waiting for him.

He entered the floor, which was identical to the penthouse, except it lacked the tarmac area on the other side of the veranda and was promptly welcomed by Antonin Dolohov’s cheerful voice.

“Tom! I was beginning to think you had already gotten _lucky_ with that new escort of yours.” Antonin smirked, “She’s hot, mate.”

“Dolohov, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” Tom asked as he swirled his whiskey around.

Antonin Dolohov wasn’t a friend. Tom didn’t do friends. But District Eleven’s Victor, who had won the Games three years earlier than him, had stepped up when Tom had been a Victor and didn’t know what to do while mentoring, had shown him the ropes around the building, and had taken Tom out for his first drink and his first cigarette.

More than that, Dolohov had been there to explain the **_Appointments _**to Tom.

In the past fourteen years, he had learned all there was to know about the Capitol and its sick games. The Games never ended, the easy part was the Arena and after that, if you were lucky enough to see it to the end, then the work would start.

The **_Appointments_**, as everyone called them were probably the worst part. The **_Appointments _**were presented to the Victor in a black envelope, and inside were the instructions for the appointment, usually; time, date and hotel to be at, and the task was: fuck the brains out of whatever rich bastard requested you.

At first Tom had refused, unwilling to simply lay down his pride for the Capitol, but then the Capitol struck back; they started slashing work in half in the mines, the Hob - Twelve’s well-known Black Market – burned day and night, they compromised the safety in the mines, late shipments of food… People were starving. But worse than that, people were _desperate_.

Tom started feeling for his safety. The whole District was dying slowly, and soon enough they would have nothing to lose, and Tom knew how people got when they had nothing to lose; hell, it was what won him the Games. So, in the end, he had reluctantly caved after having negotiated a few perks for himself; besides the money that he would get, there would be round-the-clock electricity for his house and the assortment of books he wanted. After the deal was done and signed off he went to his first **_Appointment_.**

The sick thing was…

He had come to _enjoy_ it.

He enjoyed fucking the **_Appointments_**; it felt like he was fucking the Capitol itself; the rich, privileged, brainwashed people that did not understand what it was like to live in the poorest Districts. He liked that he could fuck them however he wished, liked that he could choke, bite and thrust how hard he wanted as long he made sure that whoever had _requested_him, came. Many had come to him. He was a Quarter Quell Victor, after all, the interest for him would never truly fade. If he had money before? Now, he was almost wealthy enough to compete with a Capitol; people no longer paid him in money, but in _secrets_, which was infinity more valuable.

“Hey, mate! MATE!” Dolohov screamed in his ear making Tom turn to glare at him, “Sorry, Tom, but you looked miles away.”

“Hmm” Tom hummed, still distracted by his trip through memory lane, “just distracted I guess.”

“Oh, yes, if I had that piece of ass as an escort like you have, hmmm.” Antonin moaned lewdly, enchanted, by Bellatrix’ ass no doubt “I, too, would be distracted.”

Tom turned to really look at Antonin. The man wasn’t exactly a paragon of beauty, scars littered across his dark face, early lines of age – surprising, considering he was only 35 – scattered along his eyes and the missing leg which he had lost during his games. Yes, in the grand scheme of things Tom had gotten out relatively lucky.

A chuckle coming from behind him made him turn to look at the other Victor from Eleven; Amelia Bones. Now, she was infinitely more pretty than Dolohov, with her gleaming dark skin, laugh lines and astounding red hair, Amelia Bones had been a marvel in her time and she still was, at 43. 

“What’s so funny?” Tom asked while fishing out his cigarette pack, offering one to Amelia and Antonin who both refused, before lighting one.

“Your escort, boy. That’s what’s funny.” Amelia answered, a smirk on her lips.

“How so?” Tom took a drag of his cigarette, and glared at Amelia, “Don’t call me boy.”

“Fine, fine.” She took a seat as she waved him off, “Your escort, you don’t know who she is?”

So, Amelia was in one of her moods to be mysterious. What rotten luck.

“I know her name is Bellatrix. I know she sucks at this job. I know she’d fuck me if I was as pretty as I am on TV.” By now both Antonin and Amelia were chuckling, “And I know she’s a pain in my ass.”

“At least you figured out her name before you fucked her brains out.” Noted Dolohov with a snicker.

“Ah, but not her full name, it would seem.”

Tom rolled his eyes at Amelia’s snark, “Fine, then, Amelia, what is my _escort_’s full name?”

“Bellatrix Anastasia _Rosier_…,” Amelia let the name hang in the air.

Tom’s eyes were wide, “Oh no. Don’t tell me she’s a…”

“… Black.” Amelia finished with a flourish.

“Fuck!” Both he and Antonin cursed as loud as they were able, probably waking half the Training Centre while Amelia cackled.

In Panem there was no one above President Grindelwald. Gellert Grindelwald, which had led the army’s of the Capitol to victory at the age of 20, was the only President Panem had ever had. And he had an iron grip in everything that went on in the country. 

Still, a man couldn’t win a war and rule a country alone. And from there came the title shared by 12 families, ‘The Sacred Twelve’, families who had fought for the Capitol during the Dark Days and were instrumental to the Capitol’s victor. The Twelve families were as follows; the Abbot’s, the Avery’s, the Burke’s, the Flint’s, the Greengrass’, the Lestrange’s, the Longbottom’s, the Macmillan’s, the Selwyn’s, and the Zabini’s. The remaining two were the Gaunts – his own family – and of course, the Blacks – Bellatrix’ family.

“Shit, mate, I trust your abilities to fuck anything with a pulse, but even she might be a little above your pay grade.” Antonin shook his head amused.

Tom glared at him, but he was right, in a sense.

Fuck. What the hell was Bellatrix doing as an escort? The Blacks had enough money and enough prestige to not even have to breath on their own, they could pay someone to do it for them and that person would be honoured. Something about her had seemed suspicious; she was too calm, too _good_.

“Fuck.” He muttered again, “What the hell is a Black doing as an escort?”

“Daddy probably forced her to get a real job before she could inherit any money.” Dolohov commented before refilling his glass for the third time, “Hell, mate you might have a chance then, if its Daddy issues that brought her here.”

Tom murmured, a little stung by the comment, “I have a chance with or without ‘Daddy issues’.”

Amelia laughed, and Antonin followed suit. Tom smirked back, truly relaxed for the first time since he met Bellatrix. The rest of the night was of no consequence as they caught up on what was happening in each other’s lives.

The next few days passed much in the same fashion; the Tributes got up early and went to train, ignoring his advice altogether or not even asking for it, they had given up already. He never even got to see Bellatrix, at first he thought she had been out partying with the other escorts, but when about 10 sponsor pledges landed on his desk on the 5th day, he knew she had been working.

The next time he saw her she was wearing another ridiculous wig – still sea-green though – and a blue dress that at the very _least _didn’t contrast horribly with the wig. She was talking his ear off about the interviews with Rita Skeeter that would follow in the next day. Rita Skeeter had been doing this job for years, hell, the woman had interviewed him for his Games and truth be told, the woman might be charismatic and could turn an unsavoury Tribute to the most desirable person in Panem with a few short words, but the woman was _despicable._

“You need to train them for the interview, they need better coaching than I can give. You have been interviewed by Skeeter several times, you know better how she acts.”

“Is that so, Miss _Black_?”

He had been waiting to use that against her, and the waiting didn’t disappoint. He delighted in the way her eyes lost some of her mirth and darkened slightly at the mention of her last name. His escort was becoming more and more interesting as time went by.

“I think I’m going to miss it when you called me ‘pet’,” was the only thing she replied, until she sighed, “Who told you?”

“Why are you here?” He asked another question of his own.

“None of your business.” She replied instantly, the answer on the tip of her tongue as if it had been prepared.

“Well then, back at you.”

She snarled and left the room, carrying out her portfolio of whatever. He was so not in the mood for people who _tried._ He wanted to be left alone to mentor the Tributes, so he could rest easy knowing that they had no shot; his former escorts had been more than happy to let him work as he pleased, but he already knew that Bellatrix wouldn’t.

He had to admit as he watched the recap of the interviews that Bellatrix had done her best to prepare the Tributes; the girl managed to be charming and the boy, tall as he was, and with flaming red hair managed to attract some attention.

But it was still hopeless.

Soon enough, the Tributes were shipped off to the Arena and Tom and Bellatrix settled sat down in the sitting room’s L-shaped couch to watch the launch of the Games. Tom wasn’t confident; neither Tribute had listened to him while he had been trying to give advice. If they lived past the initial Bloodbath, he would be surprised.

As it was, they were seated maybe ten minutes and by the end of that short amount of time, Twelve had no Tributes to speak of. He smugly turned to look at her, expecting to see her crying as _what _the Games _were_ – mayhem, torture, hopelessness, murder – finally hit her. But she wasn’t, she was merely staring at the screen a look akin to horror and defeat settling on her face.

Before he could say anything she shot up the couch and went outside to the veranda. He sighed and got up to go after her, lest the woman had the idea of throwing herself off the building. She would not be the first. Not that anything would happen anyway, there was a force-field in place to prevent suicide after all, but it was too much of a hassle to explain why a daughter of the House of Black tried to jump off a building.

As it was, when he reached outside she was merely leaning against the rail. He approached her and stood beside her before extending his pack of cigarettes to her.

“Want one?” He asked offering a cigarette, his only true vice.

Bellatrix chuckled, bitter, and pulled out a cigar from only the Gods knew where, “Want one?” She returned.

He shook his head and looked at the cigar as she cut and lit it. Those were pricey, but he remembered that she was a Black, she probably could buy the whole country’s supply and not feel a dent in her finances.

“Well, this was shit show.” She commented lightly, as a puff of smoke escaped her mouth, “I’m not going to apologize for what I said in Twelve, but _damn_.” She finished with a shake of her head.

“Yeah, that’s the usual.” He answered with a careless shrug.

“Wait.” She said as observed him, epiphany in her uncanny grey-nearly-white eyes, “So you don’t care…?”

He toyed with the idea of lying, but he saw no point.

“No. Could not care less.”

“Oh.” She looked perplexed, and he sighed preparing himself for self-righteous outburst, that, to the mother of all ironies, would come from a _Capitol_.

“What are you going to say I’m a monster and what not?”

Instead of an answer, she started cackling, loud and true, so unlike all the fake laughs she did for the camera. Fuck, her voice when she laughed, low timbre and with a hint of darkness that sounded so delicious he wanted to bury himself in it. He let her laughter come to an end, with a passive look on his face. Merely observing the curve of neck, the way the ridiculous dress hugged itself to her frame, the way the cigar burned away in hand almost wastefully. Once she stopped, she looked at him, there was a little mascara that had run down during her hysteria.

“So I worked myself to the ground and you don’t even care?”

“Wanted to impress me?” He asked, smug.

“No.” She answered and then emended with a sigh and pull of her cigar, “Well, yes, but because I can’t lose this job.”

He turned to look at her, his eyebrow raised in suspicion, “Not for _money_, certainly?”

She looked at him almost insulted. “Of course not!” She snapped, “What kind of question is _that_?” She huffed, taking another drag of her cigar, “I have enough money to buy your whole little backward District at least thrice and then _some_.”

“I have no doubt.” He muttered, amused by her rant and the way it made her blush a little from what he could see, “Then why?”

“I just need it.” She stubbornly refused to give more. He turned and squeezed her arm tightly, demanding an answer, “But it does have to do with my family, you can’t send me back.”

Tom scoffed, Antonin was probably right then, it was something to do with her Daddy, probably. He sighed, because as escort went she wasn’t half-bad, if only she applied herself a little _less._ Yes, he could keep, her relief at him not caring about the Tributes already made her better than most escorts in the business. Besides, he still wanted to fuck her.

“Is that why you’re so upset about losing, you though I’d sent you away?”

“I thought I’d be _fired_. It had nothing to do with you.” Bellatrix bit her lip, and Tom hid a smirk, she was a good liar for some things but for others she was shit at it, “I can’t be sent away.”

“So you’ve said.” He said finishing in cigarette and promptly lighting another, “Don’t worry, I’m not. As long as you tell me, truthfully, what do you think of the Games?”

She sighed, uncomfortable by the direct question, and crossed her arms in front of her as the cigar danced in her mouth unaided by her hands. She grabbed it with her teeth and lips when it seemed to be slipping, staining the already sea-green stained brown paper even further. A puff of smoke later and she answered him.

“I’ve never really minded the Games, I see them as a sport as most do, of course,” the matter-of-fact way she said it should have sent him running for the hills, but it didn’t, because he understood it too, “At least, I _understand_ why they are carried out, unlike most people in the city. I just never thought-…” She let the thought hand in the air. 

“Oh, pet, don’t tell me you expected the Capitol to be _fair_.”

Bellatrix looked him straight in the eye, mouth curving bitterly around a cigar to take another drag.

“No. They are never _that_.”

The look on her face when she said that, had convinced him. Weird, he had never imagined a Capitol with enough brains to figure it out, or to even care to figure it out...When at the end of that season she scoffed at the reporters commenting on the _fairness_ of the kids’ odds, well, he managed a smile. She was smarter than most, he’d give her that. Calling her ‘Bellatrix’ would be a nice beginning for their partnership, but that would only be for the next time, though, no need to have her build an immunity to it over the next year.

As he boarded the train to head back to Twelve, Tom couldn't help but wonder what the next couple of years would be like. For the first time in a long while, he had something to look forward to in the Summer besides the **_Appointments _**that were always waiting for him to set off some steam. Next year, he'd have Bellatrix to annoy and to be frank, he couldn't wait.


	2. The 65th Hunger Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which during The 65th Hunger Games, Tom and Bellatrix get to know one another while a new popular Tribute drives Tom crazy with how popular he is out of the gateway.
> 
> Also, in which, in which this fanfic earns its rating and it's tags.

The next year, when she arrived at his house, he was showered, suited in a dashing – if he said so himself – dark green suit, and ready to leave. But first he wanted to see her squirm a little. So, he invited her in, and for the first time since they met, he used her name.

“Come on in, Bellatrix. I just need to fetch something. I lost my lucky lighter.”

He watched with great satisfaction as she almost stumbled through his threshold, even her hands looked less than steady at the mention of her first name. He had caught her off guard.

Perfect.

He almost contemplated asking if she wanted tea, just to see her stumble through her steps again and maybe get some colour in her cheeks too, since this year the heavy makeup was off season and there seemed to be a more subtle tint to the current fashion, hell, this time he might actually be able to see if he embarrassed her. But for now, he refrained, after all, it was no use using all his arsenal against her in one day.

Under the pretence of looking for his lucky lighter – as if he would ever have something as ridiculous as a _lucky _lighter – he feigned asking for help, enjoying seeing her bend over his counter or his sofa looking for a banal lighter that currently rested in his pocket and was just waiting the perfect moment to be revealed to Bellatrix. This year’s _in-style _included really tight dresses and a colour scheme much more pleasing to the eye – soft purple and pastel pink – and while it was still vaguely clownish, it was certainly better than the garish greens and blues of last year.

He had perhaps lost track of time because when he got out of his musings; he noticed Bellatrix looking at him with a glare in her eyes, and he knew he had fucked up. She was infinitely cleverer than his last escort; he had to remind himself of that constantly. Everything he did before with Charity… He wouldn’t think any of it would fly with Bellatrix.

“So, _Tom, _where is this lucky lighter, exactly?”

Busted.

“I never said _lucky._”

“I distinctly remember the word ‘lucky’.” She told her tone light, amused by his prank. With a sigh, he took his lighter out of his pocket with a flourish and a small ‘ta-da’, which she scoffed at, “I’m certainly not going to call you, ‘Mister Riddle’, now.” She said, a glare in her still-astounding grey-nearly-white eyes. He managed a snort, ignoring the fire that threatened to consume him every time her eerie eyes turned to him.

“I didn’t expect you to.” Tom said, already lighting a cigarette, “You’re quite impossible.”

“Was that a concession, Tommy?” she insinuated with a smirk.

Gods, how he hated that abhominable nickname.

Detested it.

Abhorred it. 

His gaze narrowed, and his tone was decidedly chilly, “Watch it, Bellatrix.”

Something in his tone made her stop teasing him. There was something about her that just knew which buttons to push and not push. It seemed like a freaky innate ability that he wasn’t sure he liked. Still, matter of fact was, she had stopped.

After a few tense moments they left the house, walking quietly towards the town centre where the reaping would take place. Tom stood to the side while Bellatrix greeted Mayor Lovegood. The man was a little loopy ever since his wife had died, but he cared enough for the people, and was quite liked as was his five-year-old daughter, Luna. The reaping went on as usual. Same speech, same videos, same terrified faces. This time Bellatrix was a little more engaging and festive, but not by much. In the end; Penny Clearwater from the Seam and Charles Weasley had been chosen.

As Molly Weasley and her rabble of children were once again ushered into the Justice building to say their goodbyes, Tom was once again left alone to watch the families go in. Well, he was alone until suddenly Bellatrix was standing next to him, in her soft pink wig and tight purple dress.

“Are all the people here called Weasley?” She asked quietly beside him, and Tom had to press his lips together not to let out a snort.

“It does seem like it, doesn’t it?”

With her so close to him he could smell her perfume, the scent not as strong as it should have been considering that Capitol women seemed to bathe in the stuff, but with a distictive aroma of a mix of spicy ingredients; Jasmin and ginger. It was subtle, but it seemed to ingrain itself in his brain, pleasantly. 

When the hour was over, they both rushed the Tributes out to the train.

It didn’t take long to realize that even if he wanted, these two Tributes would never be Victors. The girl was slight, too thin and had thrown up all her food after the second course, so unused to eating anything more than watery soup and crumbs of mouldy bread; the boy was better fed, but his head was in the clouds. There was no trying with these two. After he dismissed them from his mind as already dead meat, he was pleasantly surprised when Bellatrix did the same.

She didn’t really want to win either. Well, Tom was sure that she _wanted_ to, at least once, but he was sure that this job was something to entertain her, to starve off her daddy’s insistence for her to marry. She couldn’t care less about the children, and he had to admit, it was nice to not have to pretend for someone else, either.

After the day and the half required for travel where he hadn’t even seen Bellatrix again, or had even had the chance of watching the recap of the rest of the Reapings in the country, they were in Capitol soil. When he arrived and stepped off the train, he was a little confused to find even fewer people than usual waiting for them. Of course, Twelve wasn’t a particularly well-liked District, and they got less attention than most, but there was usually a big crowd waiting for them when they arrived at the Capitol. This was measly, even for Twelve.

“What’s going on?” He hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud until Bellatrix spoke quietly beside him.

“It’s this new Tribute from Four. Seems like he’s all the rage and all the people care about.”

Tom had scoffed at that, and went on his merry way, thinking Bellatrix was exaggerating. He spent some minutes speaking with the stylist who was going the _innovative _way of styling by doing what their other stylist had done 3 years ago: coating the kids with coal mining dust and letting everything else loose. Even if he had the idea of making either of his Tributes the winner, the stylist had just shot their chances. Nevertheless, he agreed with the stylist – even if he wanted to argue there was no time to make a new costume – and made his way to the stands to watch the Parade of Tributes.

The Parade was going on as normal; with District One showing off their rich golden gems, District Two with their well-muscled bodies painted a marbled colour and, then Three with bulbs of light lighting their costumes… All was well, and then quite out nowhere the crowd roared and screamed and screeched as the chariot for District Four came in barrelling through the entrance. Tom schooled his features and examined the boy – because that’s who would have to be causing all this commotion – and yes, he was handsome. Tom couldn’t guess at his age, maybe fifteen at most, but the kid seemed to have to be sculpted from the marble the Tributes from Two were trying to emulate; pale white skin, well-defined shoulders, copper brown hair framing his angular grown-up face and his eyes… they seemed as stone, hazel and resolute.

More than anyone he had ever met; this kid had the quality to him, it was the same look he had seen in his eyes whenever he looked at the tape of his Games.

Tom saw in this kid the thing he had never seen in _any _of his Tributes, a Victor.

“Who’s he?” He asked quietly as soon as he sensed the distinctive smell of jasmin and ginger.

Bellatrix voice spoke quietly as she settled next to him, “Bartemius Crouch, goes by Barty. Fourteen. And the Capitol’s all-around favourite to win.”

“Fourteen?!” he belittled, “He’s too young.”

“Poised to be the youngest Victor ever.” Bellatrix tittered in a song.

A chill of terror consumed in his veins. Tom was well-loved and well-liked by the Capitol, they solicited him more than almost any other Victor; he had _power_. And he’d like to keep it this way. When he had won, people had looked at him like they were looking at Barty. This concerned, if Barty won and at fourteen, then Tom and his Quarter Quell win at sixteen would be… old news. Tom hadn’t been old news in a long, long time.

“How likely is he to win?” 

“As sure as our Tributes are to lose.”

Tom exhaled harshly, “Great.”

They watched the rest of the Parade in silence while the people around still screamed for Barty. When the time came for Twelve’s Tributes to parade in their coal outfits, the cameras were steadily focused on Barty and his copper hair and a bright grin. Tom had to admit, the kid knew how to play the camera. When the Parade was finishing, and the Tributes sent inside to start their camera-less week of training the Capitols were all weeping about the _unfairness _of waiting so long to see Barty again. 

It was worse than he thought.

He had to do something.

* * *

For the next week he tried concentrating on his own Tributes; he could always deal with them later if people got too attached if either Penny or Charlie – as he liked to be called – won. However, two sessions in with them and Tom knew that it was hopeless. The girl could barely lift an arrow much less a sword or bow and the boy – well, the boy had two problems: first; he was too much in his own head and second; the boy hated his guts. It probably had to do with how he let his brother die, but it could also be because Tom simply had more to eat in one meal than the boy’s family had for the Winter.

Nevertheless, when the day of the interview came whatever hope Tom had for his Tributes was gone, Bellatrix had tried helping him but there was only so much she could do, she had some sponsors lined up if they needed it, but it was very clear that the Capitol had a favourite that year. Tom sighed as he handed over his Tributes to their incompetent stylist, it was out of his hands now and completely. He got dressed in a dark red suit and headed downstairs to where the studio was. Bellatrix was there waiting for him balanced in her pink high heels, in a dark purple dress and soft pink wig.

As they entered the studio, he waved at Antonin and Amelia, who were standing a few meters away speaking with some small woman he couldn’t really tell who it was. One they got closer to the trio; Tom could see that Antonin was already half-way to drunk and Amelia was doing her best to level him up. He shook his head lightly and pushed Bellatrix forward in their direction, if she was staying around then she’d need to meet Antonin and Amelia, as he pushed he noticed her looking at Antonin’s prosthetic leg with a frown on her face.

“He lost it in the Games.” Tom explained to Bellatrix, “The 47th.”

“Ah, I wasn’t allowed to see them yet.” At his quizzical look she answered, “I was too young.”

He almost tripped over his own feet as found himself stuck on her age. He didn’t know, didn’t have a sliver of thought for it. Was she young? She must be if she couldn’t see the 47th Games. But how young was she? Twenty-two? Twenty? Or, oh, Gods… Nineteen? He shook his head, she couldn’t be Nineteen, there was intelligence to her that just couldn’t make her Nineteen. Gods, he really hoped his escort wasn’t a teenager, that would just be awkward considering his own thirty-years.

“Ahhh, Twelve’s newest escort.” It wasn’t Amelia or Antonin that spoke, it was an the old woman standing beside them, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Rowena Ravenclaw was an old, _old_ woman; one of the oldest living Victors. She had won the 13th Hunger Games at sixteen and was now a spry sixty-eight. Not that everyone would ever believe her to be helpless; the woman could kick everyone’s asses from here to Twelve without breaking a sweat. Still, she did look her age; with wrinkles carved deep in her face and while there some were laugh lines, those were few and far between. She was small, barely reaching his chest, and her eyes were a bright sea green. But she was smart, and funny in a no-nonsense way that had never gained him any favours with her; she always could see right through him and he didn’t really like that and yet, the woman always tried babying him.

“Thank you, Rowena.” Bellatrix smiled – not fake, it surprised him to note, and even more so to know the difference – at the old woman, “You’re a legend around these parts, but I hardly need to tell you that.”

“You’re too kind, dear.” She shifted her sea green gaze from Bellatrix to look at him, “Tom.” The careful way she said his name, all fondness and sentiment, would have pulled heartstrings at most people, but he wasn’t most people, “How have you been, boy?”

“Don’t call me boy.” Was always the automatic response, when reproachful looks came from Antonin and Amelia while Bellatrix looked on, he added, “Fine. You?”

“I’m well, thank you, boy.” Her eyes smart and cunning, “My kid will win this year, after all.”

Tom scoffed, “I see you’re responsible for all this Barty Mania.”

“Me?!” she chuckled, “No. I’m afraid that was all the boy. He’s clever like that.”

How much clever could he be once he realized that for his _performance _he was about to be sold into prostitution, was the question every Victor was asking themselves. The boy had dug a hole for himself with his charm, and yet at the same time as he heard Rowena’s tone, Tom couldn’t help but think that everything the boy did was _genuine._ Sure, Tom had no doubt that the kid wanted to win, but there was something earnest about him that Tom had never even pretended to have.

“There you are!” A loud high-pitched voice came from behind them. He felt himself tense and wince while he saw Antonin and Amelia did the same. He watched enviously as Rowena sneaked off quietly, the woman was far too clever for her own good. Tom turned and saw a woman approaching.

Eleven’s escort, Sheila Bulstrode, was a _nightmare _of a woman. She was like every other Capitol woman: selfish, oblivious, and completely out of touch; only she was a thousand times worse. She had bragged that she had surgically altered her voice to make it higher pitched, and that should tell everyone everything they needed to know about the woman. She was dressed in the same colours as Bellatrix but while Bellatrix managed some elegance, Sheila looked like an overgrown Tulipa. It surprised Tom when Sheila turned her pointy face towards Bellatrix, a sneer she tried to mask as a smile on her face.

“BELLA!” Her high-pitched voice was grating on his brain, “They told me you were in the Games, but I couldn’t believe it. Why would a Black be doing this?”

“Sheila.”

The winters in Twelve – full of snow and frozen faucets and hypothermia – were warmer than Bellatrix’ artic tone. The three Victors shared a look as their escorts looked ready to start a fight in the middle of the studio. Tom inched closer to Bellatrix ready to grab her if needed. He needed all the good publicity he could get; he couldn’t have her ruin it, not that he thought she would, but better be safe than sorry. Tom watched Amelia do the same for Sheila while Antonin settled back in his chair as if ready to enjoy the show. Typical.

The two women seemed to realize that they were in public and backed off. Tom was surprised to find Bellatrix standing next to him and Eleven’s Victors while Sheila went to meet the other gaggle of escorts. As it went, it was a message he hadn’t expected her to pass along; between escorts and Victors, Bellatrix would pick Victors. And while the thought she was not making a statement and was merely staying beside him because he was the only one she knew crossed his mind there were two things that made him dismissed it: one, that was clearly not the case and second, she was far too clever not to know the message she was sending.

Tom watched as Amelia and Antonin caught on what Bellatrix was doing. The startled looks they sent behind Bellatrix’ back was enough for him to understand that they too were impressed by her resolve and back-bone. That she hated Sheila probably helped, too. Tom watched as Antonin exchanged looks with Amelia, the two Victors having some sort of connection after so many years of working together, they were planning something. Before he could ask what that was about, Bellatrix asked quietly beside him distracting him from the other two.

“Say if, hypothetically, you wanted to stop Four from winning this year, what could we do?”

Well, never let it be said that he and Bellatrix never agreed on anything; that made two things today already. HE wondered how he could answer the question; he decided with a half-serious-half-mocking suggestion.

“Stop the Games.”

He thrilled in the way her eyes rolled at him, “What could we _realistically _do?”

“Set fire to the boy while he is still outside the Arena.” He said dryly, “I wouldn’t recommend it, though, you wouldn’t look good in the prison’s grey jumpsuit.”

“Be serious.” She nagged a little, not imposing or strict, but slightly amused by his antics.

“We could always try charming the Gamemakers.” Tom drawled, “You do it, Bellatrix, with that dress you’re more likely to go farther than any of us.”

Now, he’d done it. He knew that eyes couldn’t really change colours without surgery, but he could almost swear her eyes turned from their usual eery grey-nearly-white to a blazing red. 

“Okay, listen here, _Tom_,” Bellatrix started snarling but quickly turned towards Amelia and Antonin when the sounds of their giggles entered her ears, and nearly snarled, “What in the _world_ are you two giggling about?”

The duo tried to mask it, tried to contain their giggles, but it was in vain. Tom would have given them points for effort, if they had managed to look like they were trying, instead of urging each other on. Amelia, as usual, was the voice of reason of the two of them and composed herself.

“When the two of you fight… It’s just like me and my husband. Worse than a married couple, you are.” Now, both Tom and Bellatrix were glaring harshly at Amelia, who merely raised her hands in a ‘I-surrender’ gesture, “Hey, don’t blame the messenger. You _asked_.”

Before he and Bellatrix could retort with anything, the show’s staff came to warn them that the interviews were about to start.

Usually, the Capitol citizens were eager to hear about the Tributes after so long of not seeing them and only after the Six or Seventh District Tributes’ interview, only then did they start getting restless. This time, however, from the moment cameras started rolling the crowd was jittery, already crying out for Barty. When the boy’s turn arrived the room nearly turned hysterical and after the initial reaction Tom could see why; the boy was charming, and witty and _romantic_.

This was bad. It was very bad. With Twelve already getting so little attention – and most of it was because he was a Quarter Quell Victor – he didn’t have much to leverage against doing what the Capitol wanted; he had got away with some _illicit _things because he was so popular with the **_Appointments, _**with a new kid like this on the block it significantly diminished his advantages. He could say goodbye to having power in his house all year round, the books, the privileges… He didn’t want to lose any of it.

He had to counter this new Victor, because there was no mistake to be made: Barty Crouch was the Victor of the 65th Hunger Games.

The rest of the Interviews went by with no other issue, the crowd had seen who they wanted to see and now were just bored with the rest of the Tributes. After the cameras shut off all of mentors and escorts went to where their Tributes were, already waiting to be led back to their respective floors for a night of rest before the next morning’s ride to Arena and start of the Games. Tom and Bellatrix quickly gathered up Penny and Charlie and led them to the elevator that would bring them to the penthouse.

“We’re going to have so much trouble finding sponsors.” Sheila whined loudly and the sound, unfortunately, ingrained itself in his head. On his side, he saw Bellatrix wince alongside him, at least they were all in agreement about something.

“Fuck _that_.” Antonin snarled, “We know who’s winning this year.” Antonin muttered under his breath, Amelia and Tom nodding alongside him.

“Rowena will have a field day with sponsors.” Bellatrix commented as she, Tom, Amelia, Antonin and Sheila put themselves on the line to the elevator, their Tributes shaking with excitement from the adrenaline of having been on in front of cameras and a crowd.

The quintet was quiet for a few moments, while the Districts in front of them all went to their respective floors. As District after District went up, their tributes in front of them were still shaking, but the slight excitement that had been there before was not there anymore, now that the Arena was only a few hours away. When District Seven and Eight were going up the Training Centre so they could also put their own Tributes to bed, Antonin broke the silence.

“We should go to dinner.” Antonin suggested quite casually.

Tom felt Bellatrix tense beside him, immediately on edge with a wrinkle in her plan and not having time to prepare herself to have dinner with the Victors she hadn’t even really met before, much less studied. She looked ready to refuse when Sheila Bulstrode butted in on the line and their conversation.

“Hmm, you guys go ahead without me.” Nobody had invited her, and no one was about to, but Sheila still declined the non-invitation. When no one dared to follow up with Sheila’s rebuttal, she followed up herself, “_I _have a party to get to!” she still spoke bubbly, looking directly at Bellatrix, and with her words, trying to goad her into a fight.

_That, _Bellatrix could easily deal with.

“_Do_enjoy Lucius’ party, Shelia.” The stink-eye Eleven’s escort gave Bellatrix told Tom that she had been right about the party, “Oh, and since you’re going to his house, please do look around for my coat, I think I left it there at brunch.” the smirk on Bellatrix’ face told Tom she was going in for the kill, “And do feel free to wear it, dear, to try to hide that hideous dress.”

There seemed to be actual tears forming in Sheila’s eyes at the slight insult and as she stormed off to go to that party, she seemed to be wailing pitifully. Antonin burst out laughing, he had no love to lose for Shelia, and Amelia despite being more restrained was still slightly shaking with laughter. Tom himself was on the brink of losing it. It was just as he had said before; Sheila Bulstrode was a nightmare.

“Well done, Bellatrix.” Amelia offered genially, after containing her laughter.

Bellatrix eyed her a bit suspiciously but, in the end, returned, “Thank you, Amelia.”

Tom watched the exchange feeling something akin to curiosity. No other escort had made the effort Bellatrix was doing, now. Was she still worried that he’d sent her away? It was unlikely, really, considering how well she fit with his temper and his principles, or lack thereof. Finding another like her would be hard. Antonin pulled Tom out of his musing when he seemed to pull himself together.

“The look on her face!” Eleven’s Victor yelled, tears running down his face, “Did you really have brunch with Lucius ‘the Peacock’ Malfoy, darlin’? I don’t know what I want more for it to be a lie or-…”

“I _did_have brunch with Lucius.” Bellatrix interrupted affronted by Antonin’s doubt of her status and less than amused by his nickname, but she quickly recomposed herself and finished with a smirk, “It might not have been today, though.”

That set off Antonin again, apparently, the idea of Sheila falling for a lie even more comical for him. Amelia was eyeing him a little disdainfully at the racket he was making, and Tom didn’t hold back his own less than amused looks. Bellatrix, either to her credit or not he hadn’t decided, took everything in stride. Amelia was the first to her throat to call Antonin to attention.

“So, dinner, then?” She drawled.

Antonin regained some semblance of sense, “Yes, the Golden Snitch.”

A lot of things could be said about Antonin, but he did have good taste in restaurants. This one was a particular favourite of Tom’s and of legitimate Capitol citizens. Named for the people who had lost their lives while they snitched secrets from the Rebellion to the Capitol, the concept was a bit tasteless, but the décor, the food and the ambience more than made up for it. More than that, it was rare that any other Victor would go there, the ill-chosen namesake usually kept others away. They would be the only ones there.

Before anyone could say anything else, the elevator arrived, and it was their turn to go to their floor and give their Tributes the final advice. After that, they’d be free until tomorrow at midday, and in this year, they could all forgo working at all. The 65th Victor of the Hunger Games was already decided.

“We’ll meet at the Golden Snitch, then?” Antonin finished as he too boarded his floor, “In an hour?”

After both Tom and Bellatrix consented, the elevator resumed its path towards the twelfth floor. After making sure that both Tributes would be okay, they went to their bedrooms to prepare for their outing. Half-an-hour later they were downstairs, entering the limo that was waiting for them. The ride to the restaurant took the other half-hour. When they arrived, Tom immediately relaxed at the familiar environment, the ride to the restaurant had been fraught with a tension that was just waiting to _explode_.

As they entered the reception zone of the upscale, high-class black and golden decorated restaurant, they saw Antonin dressed in a better suit, deep in discussion with the pretty hostess that always served them, Myrtle something-or-another.

“You always have a table for me, lovely!” Antonin whined, leaning in above the hostess table and making a pout with his lips at the indeed lovely purple-dressed, pink-haired woman. Amelia standing behind Antonin, took sight of them and rolled her eyes at them when Antonin whined yet again, “Myrtle, c’mon.”

“Not on the _eve_ of the Games, Antonin.” Myrtle answered curtly, her big-brown eyes that seemed to cover most of her face were striking and harsh, “We are _full_. There are no tables until closing hour, and the people here… Baby, I can’t even think about _slighting _anyone in the list without losing my job.”

Tom and Amelia shared a look at ‘_Baby’_, and promptly decided they didn’t want to interfere on whatever the hell this was, because last year it hadn’t been like this. Hell, last year Myrtle had looked at them like they had been trash, and Tom hadn’t known that she and Antonin had hooked up, or even _when _they had hooked up.

“Look,” Myrtle tried again, when no one spoke, “I _might _get you something at midnight, but-…”

Bellatrix interrupted her, calmly with no shouting and no tone of entitlement but in a way that exuded prestige and power. It gave her a completely different look, her eyes taking on a tone that Tom had never seen before: regal, dignified and imposing. A look that screamed ‘I’m-used-to-getting-my-way-and-I-don’t-take-no-for-an-answer’.

“Myrtle, is it? Please, get me Rosmerta, tell her it’s Bellatrix Black and a party of three.”

Myrtle’s already big brown eyes somehow widened even more when she registered Bellatrix. The girl immediately turned and almost staggered out the way to get the owner of the restaurant. Not a full minute passed when the girl was back with a middle-aged woman – although with Capitols it was hard to know for sure – who made a beeline for Bellatrix. 

“Ah, Miss Black! What a_pleasure _it is having you here.”

As the two exchanged air kisses, their cheeks barely even touching, Tom saw Bellatrix shoot a look of triumph over the owner’s shoulder at Antonin. The dark-skinned man glared back at her, his eyes – chilling brown – locked on hers with a stormy quality to them.

“Madame Rosmerta, you don’t happen to have my table available, do you?” Bellatrix asked, with the fakest sweet tone Tom had ever heard. He managed to press his lips tightly together to suppress a chuckle.

Damned woman had turned the whole evening around in her favour. And she knew it too, when the owner of the restaurant quickly assured her that her table would be free in a matter of minutes and left to make that happen, Bellatrix tuned to them and with a ‘Yes-I-did-just-make-that-happen’ smirk. Amelia was biting her lip along with Tom in an effort not to burst out laughing and Antonin was left alone, raging that his plan to fluster Bellatrix had gone awry.

Rosmerta came back within five minutes, her face still in a grin, as patrons came from behind her grumbling about being put off the table they had scheduled weeks ago. Tom was stirred by the command Bellatrix seemed to have of the city, even more than Victors did.

Rosmerta led them from the entrance hall and into the quiet and private room that would serve as their dining place; it was a cosy little table with enough space for six people. Bellatrix squeezed herself into the head of the table and Tom had to shake his head and smile. So, she had figured out what Antonin and Amelia wanted. They wanted to _test_ her. To see who she was and if they could let a little of their guard down around her, instead of having their Victor-facade on all the time like they had to do with Sheila.

By putting herself at the head of the table she had made the spotlight turn on her and made them aware that she was on to them and willing – to a certain point he was sure – to indulge them. Tom seated himself to her immediate right while Amelia sat in front of him, to Bellatrix’s left and Antonin sat himself beside Amelia.

They were barely seated when a waiter came by and brought a bottle of whiskey and put it in front of Bellatrix. A quick look at the bottle and Tom was unsurprised to find that the bottle was expensive and well-aged. A top shelf-whiskey that even Tom couldn’t really order without putting a dent in his finances. Antonin was looking at the bottle like it was a miracle, like it was everything he had ever wanted in his life. Amelia looked on amused while a waiter poured her and Bellatrix a glass of red wine and Tom, a glass of white.

“Do I pass your test, Antonin?” Bellatrix asked while she perused her purse for what Tom was sure was a cigar, but turned out to be her pink lipstick, which she applied with an expert hand all the while looking at a godsdamned spoon.

Antonin was still staring at the bottle, “With this type of drink, darlin’, you pass _all_ the tests.”

Antonin was about to grab the bottle to pour himself a drink when Bellatrix quickly snatched the bottle from his hands with a deftness that surprised even Tom. Antonin’s whine at having his drink stolen was accompanied by Bellatrix twirling the bottle of the golden liquid in her hands with a pensive look on her face.

“You call me ‘Bellatrix’ and you can have the bottle all for yourself.”

An ultimatum, then, to finish the game in her favour. Antonin was so starved for a drink that Tom didn’t think he even knew of how badly he was losing. It was a testament of how far gone Antonin was, that Tom wasn’t even sure he _cared _that he was losing.

Eleven’s victor, rasped out with need colouring his voice, “Done.” When Bellatrix didn’t give him the bottle back and merely raised her eyebrow, Antonin consented further, “Bellatrix.” A smirk made its way to the admittedly beautiful face of his escort. The smile however didn’t stay long, because soon enough, Antonin’s voice filled the surprisingly comfortable silence. “So, where in the Capitol did you grow up?” Antonin asked, attention divided between her and the drink in his hand, “Did you watch the Games? How do you know Malfoy well enough to have brunch with him? Are you his wife? Mistress? Oh, are you married?”

Everyone looked on as Antonin spewed question after question. Bellatrix’ turned to Tom, a single eyebrow raised as if asking if Antonin was for real; Tom could only nod that ‘yes’, this was Antonin’s more-or-less constant state. His lips curved upwards a little when she winced sympathetically, but then turned from her and caught Amelia looking at him with an annoying knowing look in her brown eyes. 

“What is this, twenty questions?” Bellatrix mumbled as took a sip of her drink.

“Yes!” Antonin exclaimed with an excited grin on his face, the alcohol was making effect, “This is exactly 20 questions!”

Tom and Amelia groaned aloud while Bellatrix arranged herself on the seat again, uncomfortable with the prospect of District trash – as every Capitol had the habit to call them – snooping in on her life.

“Do we really have to do this?” Bellatrix asked, taking another swallow of her wine, “I mean you have your drink, just enjoy it and let’s talk about something else.”

“No-ooo!” The alcohol was making Antonin _supremely _annoying and Tom was of half-a-mind to cut him off, but twenty questions about his escort was not the worst way to test her. If Antonin could convince her, “C’mon, _Bellatrix, _you’re the newest member of this sad troupe, and you need to be vetted.” Antonin swirled his glass, spilling some of his precious liquid.

“Besides,” Amelia put herself in the conversation, “what else are we going to talk about? The _Games_? The Capitol’s new _Golden Boy_.”

Anything but Barty, Tom almost pleaded. He was so not in the mood to talk about that boy. And it seemed that neither was Bellatrix if her eye roll and exasperated sigh was anything to go by. At least they seemed in tune in their hatred for the boy.

“Oh, Gods.” Bellatrix exhaled, “Fine.” Antonin’s eyes shined brightly, “But I’m limiting it to three questions.”

“What? No! At least…” Antonin bit his tongue trying to find a number to counteroffer.

Tom snorted, and took a gulp of wine, “Need a little help, Dolohov?”

“Shut up, Tom… I’ve got it. Fifteen questions!”

“Nope.” Bellatrix smirked, “Two questions each, and that’s my final offer.”

Antonin seemed to contemplate the offer, “And if I don’t agree, and ask more?”

The wolfish grin in Bellatrix face expanded, “Then the second bottle I ordered for your floor will go back on the shelf.”

“Now you’re talking,” Antonin laughed, “Okay, yeah, two questions each. Tom, you’re in too, we need all the information we can get.”

“Fine.” He mumbled.

Bellatrix turned to look at him, riled, “Please, don’t exert yourself on my account.”

“I thought you didn’t even want to play.” He glared at her.

“Yes, well, that doesn’t mean-,” Bellatrix stopped when Amelia and Antonin’s giggles were heard. She took a deep breath, “Fine, let’s get this over with.” She put on her reaping face with that fake smile and flipped her head towards Amelia, her voice full of fake cheer, “_Ladies first._”

Amelia was still giggling a bit, probably besotted by the way he and Bellatrix apparently argued like an old-married-couple. The redhead took a few deep breaths, regaining her composure, and before asking Bellatrix a question, she wet her dark-painted lips with a sip of her red wine. Before she could ask her question, they served the meal; veal for Bellatrix, fish for Amelia, steak for Antonin and Tom contented himself with the lobster. Amelia waited until the waiters were off the room and everyone had had a bite of their food.

“All right, all right,” Amelia started, and rubbed her chin, “Something easy… Oh, I know, we don’t even know your age.”

“My age?” Bellatrix asked a little perplexed, and Tom echoed, “Her _age_?”

“Boooo…” Booed Antonin, around a bite of steak, “C’mon, Mia, surely you can think of something else.”

Amelia stood her ground, “I asked what I asked.”

“Woman knows what she wants,” Bellatrix grinned at Amelia, she took a bite of her food before answering, “Fine, easy enough. I’m twenty-five.”

Not as young as Tom feared, but not as old as he thought she was. There was something about her that made her… well, _wise_ was always a little risky an adjective for a Capitol, but there was something _deep_ coming from within her. There was a look that frequently passed her uncanny eyes that gave away her true intelligence and more than that, _awareness._

“Okay, my turn,” exclaimed Dolohov throwing a nasty look at Amelia, “Just to see if Amelia can think of a decent question.” Amelia didn’t even bother acknowledging him picking through her fish, and Antonin turned to Bellatrix, “So, how did you get into the games?”

Bellatrix smirked, “Through the Gamemakers.” Was the extent of her answer while her eyes burned brightly at Antonin with a hint of mischief.

“Oh, come on!” Antonin waved at her, and then pointed at her, waving a fork with a piece of meat towards her face, “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Bellatrix seemed unbothered by his anger, “And yet, that’s all you’re getting.”

“Ugh! You’re impossible!” Antonin dramatically turned to Tom, “You do it, Tom, you can probably get better results.”

Tom shifted in his seat to turn and look at Bellatrix. He took his time, admiring her frame, eyes rising up and down the extent of her neck and to the way her purple dress fit snuggly against her frame. He watched as her chest rose a little faster under his gaze, her breath catching in her throat which wobbled when she swallowed. He was aware he was making a spectacle of them; but when he lifted his eyes from her collarbone to her face, he saw her eyes were a little darker and she was biting her lip.

Tom leaned forward, as spellbound as her, almost forgetting what he was doing sitting and not shoving his tongue down her throat. Amelia’s less than polite cough brought _him_ back from the brink, but not her. So, he leaned forward still, her eyes following his every move. 

A croak of a voice, that he hoped no one would notice, he asked the first question that came to his mind, “So, how am I more handsome on TV?”

Antonin groaned while Bellatrix was ripped out of her stupor by his question. She huffed a laugh, amused but a little embarrassed if her blush was anything to go by. She cleared her throat and arranged her wig, then she seemed to recover from her little episode with a vivaciousness.

Leaning forward and setting her chin on her fist she asked, “Been holding on to that one for long, have you?”

“I’m the one asking the questions here.”

She laughed, “Fine.” With a long-suffering sigh, she spoke with a laughing tone, “You are every bit as handsome in the flesh as you are on TV.” Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “Happy?”

He was sure to look her in eyes as he responded, drearily, “Ecstatic.” 

Both he and Bellatrix laughed loud a little nervously, with the thought of Bellatrix comment about sleeping with him if only he was as handsome as he was on Tv, which apparently, she thought he was; Tom almost gulped aloud, they were getting close to _that,_ he could feel it, he took the rest of his lobster while his mouth watered for something else. Amelia and Antonin were giggling alongside them, even if for different reasons. The alcohol was now well and truly affecting everyone.

“Now, back to me.” Said Antonin as soon as they stopped shaking, “Since neither of you can bother to ask a decent question.” He finished with a glare before turning to the escort, “With no trickery, Bellatrix tell me how do you know Sheila? Escort school, or something?”

Bellatrix snorted, and took a swig of her refilled glass, “_’Escort school’_? That’s not a thing.” Antonin looked ready to argue, “Trust _me, _Antonin, it’s not a thing.”

“So, you met her in regular school, then?”

“HA!” Bellatrix let out an involuntarily loud laugh, as she finished her meal, “Please, Sheila Bulstrode doesn’t have enough money to even _dream _about going to the same school as I did.” Bellatrix snorted again while the Victors looked on in varying degrees of amusement, “No, I met Bulstrode because she’s trying to fuck my brother-in-law every other day.”

The casual she exposed Sheila’s questionable behaviour didn't surprise Tom. While people in the Districts valued marriage as one the few choices they could make, and respected their partner and their union, the Capitol operated on a different level. Marriages, more often than not, were arranged or business deals. Affairs were common and, depending on the person, a point of pride and prestige.

“You have a sister, then?” Amelia asked, at last, Tom thought she was the one most disgusted by the nonchalance of Bellatrix statement, “That can be my question. Your family?”

He saw Bellatrix tense, and Tom was caught off guard on how protective she was about her family, how reluctant she was to speak of her them. Bellatrix shifted a bit in her seat, and Tom knew, if she had a chance to escape, she would have, immediately bolted to the door. As it was, she took a deep breath before speaking, a mechanical tone to her voice as if she was trying to distance herself from her family altogether.

“I do have a sister; Cissa – I mean, Narcissa.” Bellatrix amended but Tom saw Amelia’s eyes soften a bit when Bellatrix let her sister’s nickname escape. “Narcissa Malfoy, and the reason I’m related to Lucius ‘the Peacock’ Malfoy.” Her unyielding tone then softened a bit, “They have a son, Draco, he was born last year and is absolutely spoiled rotten by everyone around him.”

“Hmm.” Amelia pressed a bit more, since that little information left a little to be desired, “Mum and Dad?”

Bellatrix was now stiff as a board, “Cygnus and Druella. Loving parents.” Her tone indicated that nothing else about her family would escape her mouth and Amelia seemed to take a hint.

“Okay, I can take a hint.” Amelia chuckled, and raised her hands defensively, “Good enough for you, Antonin?” As they all turned to Antonin, they were unsurprised to find him deeply asleep, head on the table. Antonin had, after all, indulged a lot.

Bellatrix rang the bell and quickly enough there were attendants hauling Antonin up and dragging him to the back entrance so they could leave and enter the limousine attracting no more negative media attention for Eleven. Amelia and Tom waited as Bellatrix paid – or rather, in a show of privilege that the woman didn’t seem to know she was making, merely signed her name at the bottom of a long and expensive list of items and exchanged no money, checks or cards – and then quickly left the restaurant from the same door Antonin had.

They boarded the limousine and Tom and Amelia looked on, a little baffled, as Bellatrix arranged Antonin in a pose she assured them would prevent him from throwing up. The awake Victors exchanged an impressed look, they had been chastised enough times about filthy limousines to not feel grateful for Bellatrix apparent expertise.

“Party girl?” Amelia asked, one they settled, and the driver started the ride back to the Training Centre.

Bellatrix laughed, “You could say that. A few years ago I won a sizable amount of money when I bet on a Tribute that had very little chances of winning, when he won I threw a party so large in District Four that most of the winnings went to that; the ride back was an… adventure.”

Tom was curious, “Was that the first time you bet on an outcome for the Games?”

“Is that your final question for me, Tom?” Bellatrix asked, her eyes heavy with tiredness.

Tom pondered, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Shame, I was waiting for something more… personal.” Before Tom could pounce on that, Bellatrix answered his question, “No. The first time I was ten, and Kingsley Shacklebolt encouraged me to bet on who I thought would win.”

Tom didn’t have to do any hard calculus to pounce on _that._

“So… You’re twenty-five, then at ten, it would have been... The Quarter Quell.” Tom was sure his smirk was far too smug, “Who did you bet on?”

Bellatrix huffed, “You only get two questions!”

If possible, Tom felt his smirk get smugger, “It was me, wasn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She was pursing her lips, but Tom could tell that it was because she wanted to laugh. She _had _bet on him.

Amelia broke in with a hum, “Shacklebolt… I know that name.”

“Probably.” Bellatrix commented absent minded, “He’s a Victor from District Two, who my aunt had solicited for that summer.”

The drink that Tom had helped himself to, split on the floor, as his glass fell from his hands. And Amelia, who had arranged for a glass of water for herself, sputtered the liquid to the floor, clearly as surprised as Tom about Bellatrix’s revelation that her Aunt was apparently a _‘client’_ for Victors.

“You _know _about the **_Appointments_**?” Amelia asked, hand on chest trying to catch her breath after coughing out her drink. Tom settled in to observe the conversation, after recovering and refilling his glass.

Bellatrix looked at them, confused, “Of course. Auntie Walburga was a big fan.” The casualness of Bellatrix’ statement affected Amelia severely, her face paled and her hands trembled so that her glass also fell from her hands. Bellatrix watched her a bit sheepishly, “Is that… wrong of me to say?”

‘Yes’ was the obvious answer. And yet while Amelia tried tackling what Bellatrix said, Tom was trying as hard as possible not to make much fuss about the issue considering that he was actually one of the few Victors that actually enjoyed these **_Appointments._**

Amelia issued a harsh, “Yes.” She almost snarled when she added, “Of course it’s wrong to say that your aunt buys sex from us.”

“Oh, it’s not just sex.” Now both Amelia and Tom looked at her as if she had two-heads, “There’s a higher tier, you know that, right?”

“There’s a higher _WHAT_?_” _Amelia screamed, and Antonin in response snored loudly and turned. They all turned to him and quieted a little until they felt it was safe. Amelia took a deep breath, “So, not only do you force us to take up affairs, but now some are not even good enough for a _higher tier_?”

“Not at all,” Bellatrix calmly answered, “You’re just not old enough. When a Victor reaches forty or so, people request them for the whole package. The romance, the relationship, the dates, the publicity… All that stuff. It’s usually reserved for District One, Two and Four Victors, if only because some people just don’t age as gracefully as others.”

Tom had heard of those and had even seen some of those relationships, but, since as Bellatrix said it was mostly reserved for Career Districts he thought them to be mutually agreed relationships and not a sick a part of the Games that eventually even _he_ would have to play. That was radically less appetizing than his current predicament. Sex was one thing; a relationship was a completely different horse.

Amelia seemed to struggle with her own questions, but settled on one, “What about me? I’m forty-three and I’m gorgeous.” No smugness, or ego, just plain old truth.

“Well, you’re married and have kids. Most people in the Capitol see that as a relationship turn-off and refuse to solicit those types of Victors.”

Tom had known Amelia for a long enough time to know when she was going for the kill. He braced himself preventatively, already feeling a fight coming on. Unfortunately for his long time ‘friend’, he couldn’t see her winning against a Capitol, much less a _Black, _but a fight brewed, nonetheless.

“What do you think about the **_Appointments_**?”

Yes, that would do it. Tom sighed quietly and tensed his back, however, Bellatrix next to him remained calm although Tom could see her hand tightening on the limousine’s seat, her knuckles turned white at the force and Tom knew she was controlling herself. It surprised him when she started with a joke. 

“Me? Do I look like someone who needs to pay for sex?” when neither he nor Amelia looked amused by her quip, she sighed and shook her head, “I think that _that_ is none of my business, that it has nothing to do with me. I don’t hate it but don’t love it either.”

Not exactly a ringing opposition but not an endorsement either. Tom could tell Amelia was less than happy, and the glint in her eyes told him she wasn’t done. She sneaked a look at him, and Tom knew then and there that Amelia was about to use him against Bellatrix.

“Tom gets a lot of those little black envelopes.” Amelia volunteered trying to gather a more sympathetic response.

Bellatrix didn’t rise to the bait, “I’m sure he does, he’s a very handsome man.”

That was a little flattering. His chest might have puffed a little.

“Doesn’t it bother you that he doesn’t get a say in who he sleeps with?”

Again, he actually really didn’t mind the **_Appointments_**, but it wasn’t like he had ever told anyone that. Bellatrix turned to look at him and Tom had a feeling that she knew anyway without him having to tell. For a breathless moment he thought she was about to rat him out, but, at the end, she decided not to. She merely turned back to Amelia and shrugged.

“We all have our burdens to bear, some are heavier than others, but each person has to do their part. Besides, there are things that we simply cannot change.” There was a tone of finality that neither dared to break.

Amelia still didn’t look satisfied but there was a glimmer of acceptance in her eyes. Everyone knew that Capitols were raised different, a life of privilege and indulgence that made them naïve in many ways, all-in-all, Bellatrix’ remarks almost put her on par with Districts One and Two; not being completely loyal to the Capitol was already improvement enough in their eyes.

Soon enough they arrived at the Training Centre, and with a struggle between the three of them they hauled Antonin out of the limousine and into the elevator. When they reached the eleventh floor, Amelia squeezed Bellatrix’s hand in goodbye, an understanding had been born, apparently. With that, and Antonin’s bottle, she had managed to pass both their tests; her actions throughout the night – the privilege, the contacts, the information… – all had convinced him of her worth to him.

Once Antonin was settled, Tom re-entered the elevator and a palpable tension permeated the air. The alcohol having long dissipated, and the night’s action’s entering their minds fresh. He looked at her through the side of his eyes, seeing her bite her lip and fidget in her heels. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, the elevator’s doors opened, they both stepped out but before she could escape to her bedroom, he reached out and grabbed her by her elbow pulling her towards him.

Their bodies touched with sweet, heavy electricity. He could feel that one of them was trembling but wasn’t sure if he was ready to find out who. Her pupils were dilated, her breath coming out in short bursts, her breasts collided against his chest with each of her movements. He got a hold of himself and put some distance between them.

He coughed, a little unsure on how to board the issue, “About Antonin and Amelia… They were a little too _forceful_ tonight.”

“It’s to be expected. They're your best friends.” She dismissed with a wave of her hand, and Tom stopped short.

He didn’t have a _best _friend. Hell, by _design_ he had _no_ friends, what in the world was she talking about?

“I don’t do friends, Bellatrix. Much less, _best_ friends.” He insisted, his voice a little less than steady.

Bellatrix snorted and looked at him disbelieving, “Then you should really tell your _friends_ that.” With a wave, she excused herself, “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

She closed the door of her bedroom behind her, and Tom was left in the penthouse's corridor staring after her. He poured himself another drink; he was seeing Antonin’s point of view, everything looked better and easier with a drink on your hand. As he settled on the couch with a glass of whiskey, he wondered what to about Barty.

He couldn’t let the boy steal his spotlight. He had to do something, anything to prevent that from happening that didn’t involve the Arena. The **_Appointments _**were always eager to help him get whatever he wanted. But this time he was sure that no one would want to help him. They usually showered him with gifts because he was a commodity the Capitols could rarely afford, so they needed to woo him to keep in his interest in them going. But now Barty would be the go-to guy. No one was going to help him get rid of the _next Tom Riddl_e.

He needed to keep the spotlight on himself, gain media attention and keep it, somehow. It seemed an impossible task in the face of the media frenzy about Barty. He was shaken off his stupor with the sound of a rhythmic humming coming from Bellatrix’s room… She was humming something jazzy. He took a while to hear her; she had rhythm if nothing else. Tom scoffed to himself; her Black upbringing would have given her many talents she could explore. Black upbringing. _Black _upbringing.

She was a _Black_.

He almost laughed out loud. How could he be so blind? It was perfect. All he had to do was to be seen with the daughter of the famous House of Black, be seen working together with her and he would be golden. This could work. With no prompt he got up from his seat with a jump and quickly went to her bedroom’s door and without thinking pushed it open. The sight that greeted however made him stop at the threshold.

The room was the same layout as his, the bed against the wall facing the door, a TV, a closet and a door that led to a private bathroom. Her room however had an added vanity that clashed against the furniture which led him to believe she had brought in herself and as it was, she was currently sitting in front of it scrubbing off the makeup off her face. More important than that was that her wig was off, placed delicately on the bed. For the first time since he met her, he saw her natural hair colour.

But it had nothing of _natural _to it. It couldn’t be her real hair, he had seen black hair before – hell, his could be considered black, he knew – but this… This was something else. Gods almighty, it should be a crime to cover her hair – to even dare _think_ about altering it in any way.

Ebony-black of a quality he had never seen before, shining of an inherit luminesce and falling down her back in waves of pure dark silk. It transfigured him, never had he seen _natural _hair so well-maintained, so immaculate and so _tempting_. He clenched his hand at his side, trying to control the impulse of burying his hand in her tresses and mangle it beyond recognition, pull her in and smash their bodies together as the tension finally culminated into a sweet, sweaty release of adrenaline and dopamine. 

He was so transfigured he didn’t see her catch his reflection on her mirror, but her sudden yelp followed by a sigh of relief told him that that’s what had happened.

“What do you want, Tom?”

His tongue felt like plaster, it was impossible to move. He tried summoning some moisture to wet his mouth, but all the liquid in his body seemed to have travelled South. When she didn’t get a response right away, she turned, and the effect was even more stunning. Her pale, makeup free face was not what he was expecting. Her eyes were not as emphasised, the makeup had enhanced them, but their uncanniness was still there, especially when combined with her naturally pale face – which now was a little blotchy from the harsh way she was scrubbing off the makeup – and when one factored in her remarkable ebony-black hair. The eeriness, the imperfections, the contrast of colours… There was no denying, the woman was exquisite.

“…-Tom?”

“You have black hair.” His mouth was working again, now all he had to do was work on his brain. He blamed the alcohol, the tiredness and the boy that was setting his nerves on edge.

“Yes?” She was understandably confused by his non sequitur, “I know that Capitols never show their real hair or take off their makeup, but honestly that crap is itchy and more trouble than it's worth.”

“It’s black.” Still working on that brain, then.

Bellatrix was still looking at him as if he had two-heads, “Yes, well, it’s a rather natural hair colour, I admit.” When a few seconds pass and he said nothing else, he saw her reach a conclusion. The wrong conclusion, he decided as she sighed and asked him, “Do you want me to put my wig back on?”

“No.” Good, no shouting as his instincts had been begging him to, he was feeling in control again, “I just-…” Well, telling the truth was the best course of action here, “I never saw hair like yours.”

“Your hair is black.” She pointed.

“It’s different. I’m District and it's only because I’m a Victor that I have hair this healthy.” If there was a thing he had spent frivolous money on was hair products; his body had recovered rather easily from the Community Home’s treatment, but his hair had been dull, glossy with no prospects of improving. And yet, even after treatment and looking better than all the other Victors, it _still _didn’t hold a candle to Bellatrix’.

“I see.” As always when he mentioned the poverty of his District or indeed, when she saw it first-hand, there was a hint of something in her voice… Not pity, no, he’d know _that _anywhere, but a sort of understanding that shouldn’t be there at all. Her Capitol upbringing would never include the desolation of the Districts, it couldn’t. For this whole Hunger Games thing to work there needed to be complete separation of Capitol and Districts, just like there was a complete separation between Districts, even if that was to prevent a Rebellion.

“So…” Her voice, now back to her normal tone, pulled him out of his musing, “… What did you want?”

“I know a way we can keep some press on us.” He meant to say on ‘him’, but apparently his subconscious was already making her part of Twelve, a dangerous idea that had never even crossed his mind with his previous escorts.

If she noticed his inclusion of her in his plan, she didn’t mention it, “Go on.”

“During the final interview, after Barty wins, come out with me.”

To be able to keep the spotlight he’d have to share the spotlight. Sharing the limelight was dangerous, and he was loathed to do so… But she was a _Black. _If there was anyone that always called attention to the press it was having someone from the Sacred 12, even more so someone from the Black family, who after 65 years still held the public’s attention for their mysterious background during the Dark Days; hell, it was a miracle that they weren't accosted every minute of last year.

“But I’m not a mentor.” She retorted. At least she was smart enough to be able to keep up with him.

“True,” he admitted, “I thought of that. I’m the only mentor that does this alone, every other District has at least one female and one male mentor, Twelve doesn’t.”

“Hmmm…” she seemed to mull over it, “It _is_ merely a PR strategy right, you know I can’t really …”

“Of course, it’s just PR.” He cut her off, “I don’t expect you to do anything else than what you’ve been doing. Not that there is _much more _to be done. You know-…”

“… That pigs learning how to fly is more likely than Twelve winning.” _She _cut him off, “I know. I know.” She mulled a little more, but ultimately agreed with his plan, “It’s not the worst plan I’ve heard tonight.”

Tom snorted, thinking about Antonin's twenty-question game, “Antonin is an idiot.”

“A _drunken _idiot.”

Tom chuckled, “Yes, that.” He cleared his throat, “I’ll speak with the Head Gamemaker tomorrow, we need permission. But it shouldn’t be a problem, he has been asking me to do something about Twelve’s image for years. This ought to do it.”

“Hmm,” She mulled over it, “Talk with Gamemaker Rodrick Lestrange first. He’s a good friend of the family, he’ll help you get to the Headmaker faster if you mention me.”

It should sting that she knew more people than him considering he had been doing this for years now, but as it was, it was a welcome relief to not be fighting alone against the tide anymore. He knew now that there was no sending her away; she was here to stay.

He nodded at her again, and said, “I’ll do it, first thing. Goodnight, Bellatrix.” He was about to turn when she called him back.

“Tom,” he turned and watched lick her lips, “I know you don’t do friends, but I do.” His kept his face blank as she continued, “And my friends call me Bella.”

He paused for a moment, pondering her offer; he could take it and break his every rule about ‘friends’ or he could insult her. He didn’t have much of a choice really, he was starting to see that as unfortunate pattern. And yet, even if he had had a choice, he knew he’d make the same decision he was about to make.

“Goodnight, Bella.”

* * *

The next day as he had said he had gone to Head Gamemaker Slughorn who had happily received him even if it was the first day of the Games and he should be swamped with work, Rodrick had clearly sold him well to Horace. He spent maybe twenty minutes trying to convince the man and that had been enough. He and Bellatrix had a strategy then. 

The next couple of days were quiet, people were hanging over Barty’s performance and he loathed to admit but the boy was doing well, calm and steady; of course, that the boy lacked for nothing, he barely need to pant and water would descend from the heavens to help along. While the Games proved to be a disappointment – Penny had died in the bloodbath, and Charlie wasn’t fairing much better but at least was still alive – he kept himself busy with trying to plan how to approach Barty when he won. He decided to maintain his distance, it wouldn’t do to compete for the limelight next to the boy.

Of course, then there was Bellatrix. He kept looking at her, couldn’t tear his eyes off her every time they were in a room together. After that night, the night he had seen her real hair, she was ingrained in his brain. He didn’t really know why he was so enraptured by her hair, maybe it was because it was so normal… so _Uncapitol_. It made her real, unlike all the plastic people in the city. And while thinking about her was all fine and good – it _wasn’t_, but he could deal – when he was alone, it was less appetizing when he was in the middle of an **_Appointment. _**

He looked down at the woman in front of him, laying on the bed on her hands and knees, rear up in the air trying to entice him to fuck her. He quickly positioned himself fully behind her and entered her with more force than was advisable, the moan the woman issued told him it was not entirely pleasant. And yet, he couldn’t help but quicken his pace, eager to finish this whole thing, not really caring for the woman under him, every time she moved, and her pink-painted hair moved with her, he couldn’t help but imagine Bellatrix’ hair cascading against her milky white back.

He tried closing his eyes, but the image of ebony-black hair kept entering his mind. He couldn’t shake her off, her eyes, her neck, her body, her _hair_, fuck, her godsdamned hair; nothing about her left his mind, it seemed like she really was rooted on his brain. The smell of jasmin and ginger peaked in mind behind the clouds of pleasure. Her voice, low and silky, moaning softly, torturing his ear. He sped to the finish, callous and uncaring. He finished, his head filled with the smell of Bellatrix’s perfume, with the thought of his hand buried in ebony-black hair, and her breathy voice in his ear. Needless to say, that disappointment coursed through him when he opened his eyes and saw Leonor Roswell instead.

“Well, that was something.” She noted lightly.

Yes, something completely unlike him; he usually let himself enjoy the moment, let himself experience the feeling of being better than the Capitol under him, let himself enjoy hurting the Capitol, and yet, this time he was too distracted by his escort. He had been reckless; far too rough and uncaring for the woman’s pleasure. Thankfully, he was sure he could get away with it, the underbelly gossip was that he was a bit of a bad boy; rough, but good. This woman was a first-time client, she’d probably think that she simply wasn’t used to it.

“Next time, you’ll like it better.” It was arrogant to think she’d want him again, but experience told him he was right.

Leonor chuckled, “I liked it plenty, lovely.” She got up from the bed and motioned to the adjacent room, “I’ll go back to my room. Next time,” her hand travelled the expanse of his chest, wet with sweat, “I’ll pay for more time.”

He managed a smirked at her, and she leaned up and kissed his lips. This was always the worst part, the kissing. He hated it; it felt too intimate, too personal. Still, he moved his lips mechanically against this woman who had paid a sizeable amount of money for him, and for the first time he felt… unsure, uncomfortable and grimy. After the woman said goodbye to him, he rushed to the bathroom. The urge to feel clean had permeated his brain from any other thoughts, and he spent an abusive amount of time under the hot water.

After making sure he was as clean as he could, that he had left no part of his body unclean he got out of the shower and put on some clothes while he called a limousine to take him back to the Training Centre. While he waited for the driver to arrive, he turned on the games to see how the boy was doing.

It seemed like he had turned on the TV just in time.

“Fuck.” He whispered when he saw an actual fucking golden _trident _descend into the waiting hands of Barty Crouch. It was the most expensive gift in the history of the games. _Ever._

Well, it was all over for everyone, now. There were ten kids left but Barty would fish them all out easily enough. Sometimes, the Capitol was about as subtle as a punch to the face. All the odds rested with Barty Crouch, clearly. Charlie Weasley had been too much like Newt but had held himself long enough to make it to the top 10. It was better than nothing, but Weasley was doubly fucked now. Good riddance, for all he cared.

He finished getting dressed and left the hotel, as he descended from the elevator and into the waiting limousine outside, he noticed the frenzy most Capitol citizens seemed to be in. The Games must be close to ending, it had been going on for a week now and most were anxiously awaiting Barty’s crowing. Tom wasn’t sure how the boy would handle the **_Appointments _**that would soon float his way, but he was about to be swamped in them; fourteen or not. He poured himself a drink as the driver cautiously drove back to the penthouse.

He got out of the limousine, already shrugging off his jacket as he entered the elevator. Bellatrix would be in the penthouse, already readying herself for whatever party she had to be at tonight. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing her after having spent the whole of the afternoon thinking about her while he fucked his **_Appointment, _**so he steeled himself as the doors of the elevator dinged open. He stepped out of the elevator and he could have covered himself in steel and still not be able to process what was happening in front of him any better.

Laying on the couch of the penthouse’s sitting room: Bellatrix, mouth open in ecstasy, moans lasciviously exiting over her lips, her limbs trembling in a shuddering mess and her hand moving frenzied under her black underwear. His cock responded to the picture the woman painted and rose painfully against his zipper, hot and swollen. She was nearly fully dressed, the only thing missing was her skirt and her heels, oh, and of course, her wig. Fuck, her hair was all loose and wavy and tangled and free and he never wanted to bury his hand in a woman’s hair so achingly before. He was feeling a little dizzy. And she still hadn’t noticed him, or had she?

He thought of her moaning his name, though he loathed whenever his affairs did that. In an almost ridiculously cliched way he wanted her to do it now, to hear her fuck herself with his name on her lips. Of course, she didn’t, but she did shudder and cry out a wordless cry one last time. He leaned his hand against the walls and braced himself for when Bellatrix finally found him lurking behind her watching her come. Her breathless breathing filled out the room and for the first time he took his eyes from her and noticed the TV was on.

She had been fucking herself while the Games had been on. Muted, but still. He should hate that she uses the violence, the blood, the _death_of the Games as an aphrodisiac. It should disgust him. But it doesn’t. It _doesn’t._ Instead, it makes him impossibly hard. He shuddered as his cock rose to form a tighter tent at the front of his trousers. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“Shouldn’t you be with Roswell?” She asked when she finally noticed him, unashamed, her breasts heaving up and down with her laboured breath and Tom felt his trousers get tighter, the tent at the front rising even more. Something about this felt wrong, it felt a little too staged, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“… Finished.” Is the only thing that escaped his mouth. He should be ashamed of his weakness, but Gods almighty, he’s only a man.

“Hmm… Already? That was fast.”

Well, fuck him if that didn’t sound like a challenge.

He quickly walked the rest of the way to her and before she could move from the couch, he climbed on top of her using both his body weight and his hands on her arms to keep her from moving. Their bodies touched and brushed with that deliciously torturous electricity. He heard her whine when the tent in his pants brushed against her.

“What was that about _fast_?” He snarled at her, eyes taking in the blush and sheen layer of sweat to her face. When she didn’t answer, he gave a little thrust, brushing a little more harshly against her. It was torture for him, being confined inside his pants when he wanted to be stacked inside of her. But it was worth it when her eyes glazed over as if entranced. Oh, he was good. Still, Bellatrix was never one to let him win without a fight.

She leaned up, her breasts brushing against his chest and he couldn’t wait to get the damned blouse off her and feel them for himself. When Bellatrix then rolled against him, her stomach and her legs brushing against his cock, Tom cursed at her. She grabbed his hair and twisted his face so she could bite his jaw. He growled a mix of pain and pleasure and tried to do the same to her, the thought of his hands on her hair leaving him dizzy, but before he could she only pulled his hair harder. Her eyes – so grey they were now, barely white, darkened with desire – locked unto his and only did he look back with the same intensity did she open her mouth to speak.

“Since you left, I barely had time to work myself into an orgasm, the poor woman did not get her money’s worth.”

Fuck her. And Gods, did he ever want to. Still, he couldn’t let that stand. The good thing is that he knew that she wanted him back just as bad. Woman had practically ravaged him once he was on top on her. He leaned forward and managed not to burry his hands in her hair just yet, but he did burry his face on her neck, his lips and teeth resting over her pulse, his tongue licked the sweat of her neck and ‘shuddering’ was too tame a word to describe Bellatrix’ quaking body. He already had her writhing beneath him, and he hadn’t even started.

“And yet, you still want me, _Bella_.” He whispered against her throat and he felt her shudder again under him. He lifted his head expecting to see her hypnotized by him, he should have known better.

“What are you going to about it?” she asked, looking up at him, defiant. Of course, she was.

He snarled, his hands already undoing the zipper in his pants, “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“Promises, promises.” Bellatrix teased but her voice was husky with desire, oh, she did want this as much as him.

Unable to hold back his desire anymore, he lowered his head to the side of her neck and laid bite after bite on her pale white skin, her head immediately turned offering him all the access he needed. There was no better way to shut her up than to keep her mouth busy. As it was, the moan that escaped from deep within her throat when he bit a particularly tender stop sent hot tendrils shooting across his veins and made all the blood in his body travel further south, setting his cock throbbing. As if sensing the torture he was going through while his cock was being pressed up harder and harder against his trousers, Bellatrix moved her hands to cup him and he thought he might come then and there. Tom growled loudly when she released him from his confinement. Fuck, this was too much and yet not nearly enough. 

Tom tore away from her neck to crush their lips together, their tongues immediately mixing and dancing in a dirty, lustful kiss. He tried pulling away from her so he could start undressing her, but Bellatrix chased his mouth and prolonged the kiss. With a deftness he probably should have been expecting, Bellatrix tore open his white shirt sending the buttons popping and falling in a ‘clack’ on the marble floors of the sitting room. Not one to get left behind Tom quickly ripped her blouse from her and setting her black bra aside he clinched her breast, his long elegant fingers twirling around a nipple. Bellatrix nails nicked his side in a mindless pleasure and their mouths sprung apart as a sinful moan escaped her lips.

In the throes of her pleasure she was bucking against him, making his cock twitch and throb harder without nothing surrounding it. He tried pulling away from her, again, to try to burry himself in her but she held him close, her hands buried in his hair and pulling him closer still. He thought she was about to kiss him again when instead she started sucking on the hard-drumming throbbing vein in his neck. He shuddered as she seemed to find a way to harness his own pulse against him, sucking on the rare lull between beats giving no relief to reconstitute himself.

His hands quite out of their own accord climbed from her breast to her hair, and he felt her buck and breathe tremulously as his fingers brushed against her scalp and _gripped _her hair tight enough that it had to hurt her. He had _fantasied _about this, and touching it now, and it was as silky as he imagined but it was heavy too, if he ran his hands too roughly over it it’d all tangle in impossible knots and Tom wanted nothing more than to pull her hair as his cock hit the back of her throat. As she whimpered beneath him, voicelessly begging him for his cock, he knew that that would have to wait.

One hand buried in her hair, the other started descending her body slowly, even as she still sucked his pulse and had her hands running over his back under is still adorned shirt, he gripped each bit of skin he passed. Grabbing harshly at her flesh, intentionally merely brushing her nipple and running down the naval of her stomach. When he reached the apex of her legs, her black lace underwear was soaked through, with a groan he pushed the soaked fabric down and ungracefully squirmed his own trousers off the rest of the way. He didn’t bother looking at her; she was clearly ready for him, whirling under him and bucking against him. With one nimble move he buried himself to the hilt inside of her.

Her shout of pleasure was loud and harsh and she threw her head back as he thrusted inside of her for the first time. Tom echoed with a shout of his own, though muffled by his mouth being buried in her neck. With arduous and ardent movements he thrusted in and out of her, not even bothering trying to start slow; they had both been waiting for this for a year now, ‘slow’ was not in the cards. It felt dirty, filthy, downright sick, to fuck her, to thrust into her while children – their children, some would argue – died on screen. But it only made him go faster, the recap of the games going through every red play and every bloody death, made him speed up, fuck her harder into the sofa, made him rip her dress and tangle her black ebony hair into a mess of curls, knots, and pain.

“Fuck, _yes._”

Her voice rasped, broke and climbed with each thrust, whining as he gave her no pause to breathe. As the announcer was reaching the end of the recap, their thrusts became pitiless and rougher, he made a gesture to grab the head of the couch and ended up smashing his hand through the glass side table, bloodying his hand. Howling in a mix pain and pleasure, he moved faster; the couch moving along with his brutal thrusts destroying half the living room as she screamed beneath him. He didn’t stop to look at her and doubted she wanted him to when her legs rose to his waist to trap him where he was.

He thought of nothing else, his mind deliciously numb, completely engulfed in the movement and in her; finally, finally feeling like himself again with a Capitol woman writhing under him. He sped up, making his thrusts rougher and harsher, making the most of the current deliciously mind-numbing act. He wasn’t surprised that she was matching him brutal act by brutal act; everything he did, she returned two-fold; he bit her lips, and she carved her nails into his back; he knotted her hair, and she pulled his; he bit her neck, and she sucked painfully on his pulse.

He was close, the pain an added aphrodisiac he hadn’t counted on enjoying himself. He was _so _close, and she was too. Fuck, he couldn’t believe she was going to come like this, just by his cock dripping in and out of her cunt. He plunged in and out of her hard, effort painting his face red; his cock drawing out of her soaking cunt lecherous sounds that he relished; her nails screeched across his back no doubt leaving a bloody trail behind, making him euphoric, and then, another frenzied thrust, and he was emptying himself inside of her, her walls clenching around him as she too reached a screaming climax.

The silence lasted for a beat.

“Did… you plan… this?” He panted into her neck.

“A little bit.” Bellatrix admitted, breathed heavily, too, and ran her hand through her sweaty forehead down to her lips, then to rest on his side, patting to get him out of her, “I didn’t plan for you to nearly fuck me silly, though.”

He should be furious that she had manipulated him, but then again, hadn’t he been sending her signals for the past month? Hadn’t he practically jumped in the restaurant and then her bedroom? Besides all the signals, he really needed to get her out of his system. What had she said then hit him, quickly and out of nowhere. She hadn’t expected him to be _good_… Well, that’s just insulting. He quickly got out from on top of her started buttoning his shirt until he realized it was useless, there were as many buttons on the floor as there were on his shirt.

“For someone with so little faith in my _abilities _you sure jumped me pretty quick.”

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re offended?” Bellatrix laughed, as she watched him dress, “But I do admit, there _was_ a lot of hoping and _thrusting _that you could find your way around a woman.”

He glared at her and shook his head when he saw her grinning at him, still mostly naked and with a sheen layer of sweat covering her skin. Instead of focusing on her, he raised his eyebrow at the horrendous pun.

“That was terrible. I’m disappointed.” He said as he pulled up his pants.

“You did it first!”

“Did not.” He had; during their first meeting but wasn’t about to let her win this.

“Oh Gods, you sound like a child.” She said as she got up and started walking towards her bedroom, “’_Did not_’” she imitates him rather poorly.

Well, he couldn’t let that stand, could he? With a shrug of his shoulders, he went after her and followed her into her bedroom and then into the bathroom. He watched as she started stripping off the rest of her clothes.

“You started it.” He mumbled watching intently as she revealed the rest of her body. When his mouth watered at the sight of undoing her corset and her ruined stockings out of her gather belt, he realized that he may not have gotten her completely out of his system. He needed to have her again.

“Really?! How old are-,” then she turned, saw him staring at her and her words died in her throat. With a gulp she pressed the button for hot water and entered the shower, her eyes never leaving his. At a call of her finger he undid his clothes and stepped right in with her.

* * *

The Games had gone on for another two days, and after that first time, it seemed like they were making up for all the wasted time during the past month. They had barely left the penthouse even when their last Tribute had – predictably – died with a trident imbedded in his throat. Two days later, while Barty was finishing off his last opponent and he and Bellatrix were busy exploring just how cold the veranda outside their sitting room was, the phone rang, scheduling the interview they had agreed would be the one where he and Bellatrix would appear together.

Any other year and the rumour mill in the city would vibrate with how much time he and Bellatrix were spending locked up in the penthouse, as it was, there was a bit of _chatter _but they mostly ignored it in favour of the new Golden boy. Still, the rumours would do them good publicity and it would create some needed anticipation for the interview. They got ready, the interview for the losing teams usually took place right after the Tribute won, so they had little time to prepare, as it was, they would still be the last if only because Twelve really was _that_ unlucky.

They got to the studio in time to hear District One’s mentors – Augusts Rookwood and Dilma McLaggen – talk about his Tribute. They entered Twelve’s prep area to the frenzy of the surrounding team, they were talking about how good Barty had been, how handsome he was, how polite, how smart, how strong, how clever, how utterly _perfect_... As usual, it sent his blood boiling, it made him furious and tense and he certainly couldn’t go out there and make a fool of himself while a new Golden Boy took over the Capitol’s attention. So, he had fucked Bellatrix against the door of their dressing room as their stylist yelled for them. That had to make up for something, probably.

They had got ready just in the nick of time for his name to be called to go up to the stage. Despite Barty Mania, he was a well-liked Victor, known for being a bit of a bad boy and a charmer through the whole Capitol circles. So, it wasn’t exactly surprising that the crowd roared when he entered the stage; it was a little less enthusiastically than usual but he could deal with it; he was about to drop Bellatrix on them.

“Rita,” _he _started the interview, because damn it, he was Tom Riddle, Quarter Quell Victor, “despite enjoying your company,” a bald-faced lie, “I always feel so _alone _on this side of the stage.” He smirked as he heard the crowd laugh along with his self-deprecating joke, “So I’d like to invite my newest partner in crime, a little bit of the reason we got so far this year, but just _a little bit_, “ more laughter at his conspiratorial tone, “my newest escort that is due her own introduction to the game; Bellatrix Black.”

Tom could tell that Rita was furious with him for having high-jacked her show but he couldn’t give a damn when the minute he met Bellatrix in the middle of the stage and kiss her hand for all of Panem to see, the crowd seemed to roar as loud as they had done for Barty. It was working… Just as he thought it would. As he had predicted as well, the crowd went mad for the both of them and even after they sat comfortably on the couch the crowd was still clapping.

Perfect.

Rita, who was torn between fuming and seizing the entertainment marvel that was given to her on a silver platter, tried to reign in the crowd. Tom was careful not to look _too_ smug, but a little smirk certainly wouldn’t go amiss, Bellatrix was showing a little smile, too. When Rita finally controlled the crowd, she turned to Bellatrix.

“Well, well, Bellatrix. Quite the introduction.”

The laugh coming out of Bellatrix couldn’t be more fake, but he was sure only he could tell.

“Indeed.” Bellatrix smiled and turned to him, her hand casually brushing his arm, “He is very good to me.”

The crowd went off again, ‘ooh’s and ‘aww’s filling the studio. Rita barely managed to get control of the crowd again, but went on asking about their partnership, how it had started and how it seemed to work. Tom wasn’t exactly surprised when the crowd hang to their every word, unlike every other year where even with his considerable talent he barely held the attention of the crowd who had sat for eleven other interviews. With this one they were sold for next year, and with luck, the next couple years. Just as the interview was ending, Rita returned to Bellatrix.

“Is it true that you, Bellatrix, along with Tom and the Victors from Eleven went out on a dinner the night of the interview?”

Well, that was innocuous enough, but Tom could feel the trap coming as could Bellatrix no doubt.

Bellatrix cleared her throat, “Well, yes, there was talk about a potential alliance. We were all a little wired after the interviews and didn’t want to go home, so we proposed a dinner.”

Rita leaned back in her chair, “Is it also true that you sent Eleven an expensive bottle of whiskey?”

“Wine,” Bellatrix corrected falsely with a smirk, leaning back as well, “You need to _really_check your sources better, Rita.”

Brilliant. The woman was bloody brilliant. He thought as the crowd laughed at her quip. Whatever Rita drudged up from the confines of her soulless being would be in question. He knew if needed, both Amelia and Antonin would lie for them. 

And Rita seemed to know it too seeing as he watched her green eyes narrow in distaste at Bellatrix; it was always to be expected, it surprised him to note, for Bellatrix and her family to be a target of defamation and jealousy. Many had tried knocking the powerful family off their pedestal, but they never quite dethroned them. Tom watched Rita try to set them up for something, but after Bellatrix’s intervention there was nothing she could say _now _that would sound true.

“You seemed to really _click_.” Rita managed through gritted teeth.

Ah, she had been about to try to make them reveal their… affair… just as she had done with Charity. Too bad for her that both he and Bellatrix were smarter than that.

It was Tom that answered, “Yes. A fortunate partnership.”

The crowd ooh’d and aww’d at them again, and Bellatrix shook her head laughing – a fake laugh, but very convincing – aware that this type of publicity was godssent considering the current mania that was sweeping the Capitol. Neither wanted to be parted from the limelight. 

When the next week, after the Coronation, Tom was boarding the train back to Twelve, he did so serenely. They didn’t try to lie to each other with meaningless lies of ‘one-time-thing’ and ‘one-night-stand’. It worked, _this_ worked. She’d have someone to take the edge off the stress and he, well, he’d have a Capitol ready and willing for him whenever he wanted to relieve some stress, and a way to stay in the spotlight if the media kept the interest in them.

Besides, it was as Rita said; they _clicked_, and their chemistry was off the charts.

The Capitol would eat it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when this was a little drabble? Because I do and I miss those days.
> 
> I'm sorry for the big update, but I really couldn't emotionally handle separating this fanfic more than it already is. So, I hope you enjoyed the extra big chapter. I'll try to make the others shorter.


	3. The 70th Hunger Games - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 years after Bellatrix and Tom come to an understanding we see how they are adapting to their partnership and their world, with surprising appearances from canon Harry Potter.

Five years had passed since the time he and Bellatrix first stole a bit of the spotlight from Barty Crouch’s victory, and Tom could honestly say that his life had – without him even forcing it too much – turned around for the better. These days he found himself more often than not in the Capitol, so much so that the last full Winter he had spent in Twelve was in-between the 65th and 66th Hunger Games, every other Winter he had spent in the Capitol, cosy under the artificially controlled weather.

Him and Bellatrix had continued with their affair, and even if not official, they were the industry’s best-well-known secret. Not even their… ‘friends’ had had the dignity of a confirmation, much to Amelia and Antonin’s dismay. Speaking of, they had somehow become ‘friends’ with the Capitol’s new Golden Boy, who despite having a _ton_ of mentors to look up to from his own District had imprinted on Tom, and followed him, Antonin, and Amelia around like a puppy. That bit of ‘friendship’ with the Capitol’s Golden Boy had given Tom even more power, softening his image as a bad boy quite a bit but enhancing the Capitol’s views of him as a mentor. The boy he had so fear had somehow become one of his biggest assets. 

Barty’s view of him as a mentor and his mysterious affair with Bellatrix – that had most Capitols wagging their tongues about them for details – had quite frankly risen Tom’s standing more than he could have done by himself.

Thankfully, his and Bellatrix’s rather inconspicuous affair didn’t stop the **_Appointments_**, having him when he was either unavailable or fucking a daughter of the House of Black was a deceptive aphrodisiac, and the **_Appointments_** had perhaps doubled since he started staying in the Capitol all-year-round. Bellatrix seemed to enjoy them too, which surprised him since he had figured her as a jealous woman, but she seemed to like that others wanted him and that unlike them, she could have him without having to pay.

All in all, Tom’s life had certainly been worse than it was currently. Well, for the most part that is. Being friends with Bellatrix – and yes, she had somehow passed from a ‘friend’ to a friend – meant that sometimes he had to do things for her. Because that’s what friends did. Apparently.

Now, Bellatrix was quite tame in her requests having, perhaps, in five years asked occasionally for a ride home, a place to sleep or for him to pay for dinner once because she forgot her card and that particular restaurant wasn’t under her family’s purview. But, apparently, she had contained herself because she knew that her family and friends weren’t as tame as she was, given that they had all decided to cash in all the favours Bellatrix owned them and were asking for his presence at parties this year.

“We’re going to be late.” He said as he fiddled with his tie in the hallway mirror while she got ready in her bedroom, he heard a hum in response. Rolling his eyes, he finished tying his tie and walked into the bedroom. Seeing her still in her underwear, he groaned, “Still like that?”

“You know, a few years ago, this would have been enough to make you insist we spend the night here.” Bellatrix spoke as she applied her mascara, she pouted and looked at him through the mirror, “Where did we go wrong, Tom?”

He rolled his eyes again, she was in a mood to mock, apparently, “And in five-years have you ever let us stay here?”

This made her chuckle, “Well, we don’t want Peacekeepers at the door while we fuck, darling, it’s a little bit of a turnoff.”

“I know I’ll regret saying this...” he pretended to lament, a smirk to his lips, “But I never took you for a prude, Bellatrix.”

Bellatrix snorted and gestured towards the dress on the bed which he turned to get for her, “Hearing them moan and quip jealousy is not something I’m into, no matter how hot the idea of them spying on us is. If you want something like _that, _I’m sure we can set it up, I have a couple of friends who wouldn’t mind.”

“And there it is, the regret.” He sighed as he handed her the dress and watched her bend over to squeeze into a tight red dress.

Garish colours were back this year, but since Bellatrix had hit her thirties, much to her chagrin, she was less obliged to follow the trends to the letter. Thank the Gods for small favours. She still did have to wear a wig though, which was a shame, but she chose carefully duller colours. Today was a blond one.

“Blond suits you.” He said, a smirk on his face that she scoffed at. She hated being blond, and he was sure that, like many of Bellatrix’s pet peeves, it was some sort of pride thing involving her family.

Despite her glare he walked closer when she turned, and carefully, slowly pulled the zipper of her dress up. She shivered under the whisper of his knuckles on her back, and her chest rose faster with delicate touch he provided. And when he bent forward, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke, she moaned quietly.

“We _can _stay here tonight.” His voice rough with desire made her quake. Their bodies were flush close, and even as the zipper was firmly up, he didn’t let up on it, hoping that she would seize to see reason and throw herself at him.

“Tom.” She groaned and melted back into him.

He had to play this carefully, she always succumbed to him for a minute or two but then went back into rushing him out of the door. Kissing her neck for long wouldn’t work, he’d tried that, and it hadn’t gone well. Trying to take off the dress he had just zipped close, also wouldn’t work. Manoeuvring her to the bed was futile, she was quick on the uptake.

“Enough.” She huffed out, her breath hot and heavy. Apparently, taking too long to make a move was also counter inductive to drag her to bed, “We have to go to my sister’s now.”

Ah, yes. The party they had to go to that night was to be held at her sister’s. The woman had, according to Bellatrix, barely controlled herself for five years and not ask for him at her parties. Apparently, Narcissa Malfoy was a fan of his… How charming. He was not much in the mood to chat with the High Class, even sponsors were better because they acknowledge his prowess in the Games, but the high High-Class was… unlikely… to have the same respect, they _would _look down on him; Bellatrix on his arm or not.

“Yes.” He said, resigned to his fate, “I suppose we must. Come on,” he mentioned towards the exit, “let’s get this over with.”

* * *

The ride to Bellatrix’s sister’s house took them about 45 minutes, passing from the crowded streets of clung together colourful apartment buildings to the green fields of the countryside with sparse mansions popping up on the landscape occasionally.

Tom tightened his grip on the steering wheel, while he kept his eyes on the mostly empty road. Bellatrix had, somehow, convinced the Capitol to loosen the restrains around them a bit, letting them drive to her sister’s house without an escort. He didn’t know how Bellatrix had managed that, but he doubted it would happen regularly. But for today he got to pick a car and drive around a little, making him feel the tiniest bit normal… He wasn’t sure he detested the feeling of being inconspicuous as much as he thought he would.

The comfortable silence in the car was now and then interrupted by her soft-spoken directions. When they stopped at a far-off station to fill their car, Bellatrix surprised him by taking the driver’s seat.

“You sure a high-class brat like you can drive a car?” He asked, a little bit teasing in his voice.

Bellatrix merely rose her eyebrow at him, her smirk to her red painted lips. He smiled back and got in the passenger’s seat next to her. He watched her adjust the seat and the mirrors. He was about to tease her when with a flick of her wrist the car roared to life, and with a screech of the tires they were off; far, far, _far_ faster than he had dared to.

He felt the urgent need to grab to the door’s handle as Bellatrix took ascending curves without ever even reducing the speed, but looking at her calm, cool and collected, he knew she had done this route hundreds of times before. He loosened his grip a little, the way she handled the wheel, and the stick was distracting him a little, it was very attractive. He watched her expertly manoeuvre the car along the ever increasingly complicated curves as they rode up the mountain that made up the border between District Two and the Capitol; her sister’s house was on that Mountain, on the Capitol’s side naturally, on a hill that overlooked the city. He had never been, but Bellatrix assured him it was quite the view.

Tom felt her slowing down as they hit somewhat dense woods, the headlights in the car were on and casting an intimidating light on the trees, after a few more minutes he started seeing lights in the sky. When Bellatrix stirred the car towards that direction, Tom figured they were close.

They passed a gate where Bellatrix had to give their name as well as their invitations, and then they drove for about 10 more minutes before he started seeing the facade of the Manor – because _yes, _it was a Manor.

A grandiose two-floor building, with verandas sticking out, the façade done in a garish blue and orange colour combination that looked so outlandish that Tom couldn’t think of what the interior might look like. The doors and windows were floor-to-ceiling and were open to let in the late May heat, columns adorned the building and gave a grandiose feel to the place. The gardens were long and vast and green, with topiaries and hedge-labyrinths and small lakes, flowers of all colours and statues spread around them.

Tom looked around a little impressed. He had never actually been to high High-Class Manors, those types of people usually rented out some space near the Capitol. The estate was remarkable, almost as much as the Presidential Manor. He turned to Bellatrix and asked, curious about her own estate.

“Yours’s like this?”

“More or less.” Bellatrix volunteered distractingly, her hands steady on the wheel, “I have bigger gardens, a more subtle marbled white colour. Other than that, it’s pretty much the same.”

‘_Subtle’ _was a matter of opinion, but white did sound better than the current spectacle of colours in display in front of him. Tom watched as they passed the front gate and the entrance and went through a back road; sneaking a look at Bellatrix he saw her unworried and relaxed back into the seat. The car came to a stop at the entrance to the kitchen, where a servant opened the door for them and escorted them into the family room.

Bellatrix handed her bag and coat to one of the servants and motioned him to do the same with his outer coat. Standing alone with Bellatrix in the parlour with only his smart black and white tuxedo with a smidge of red laced into his lapel and she seemed ready to jump him, running her fingers over the silky-smooth tie that he had put on.

He smiled a little when she leaned forward and looked ready to push him into the nearest surface to ravish him. He liked the effect he had on her when he was dressed to the nines, it something he could always count on. She looked ready to take the plunge when a voice coming from the direction of the party ran out.

“Hi, auntie!” A little boy screamed from his right and Tom barely had time to dodge as a kid threw himself at Bellatrix’s knees, “Mommy let me stay awake until _soooo _late, today!”

“Hello, little dragon! I can see that.” Bellatrix chuckled as she bent over to pick up her nephew, whose hair colour was, of course, the brightest shade of green Tom had ever seen, similar to last year’s Victor, Marcus Flint from District One, who had won by driving a spear through the heart of anyone that got too close to him.

Tom watched the kid detangle himself from his aunt and run away in search of his mother and Bellatrix rise to her full height beside him, “The boy has a crush on last year’s Victor.” She said as a way of explaining away a complaint he hadn’t formed.

The casual way she explained the boy’s… preference… was not surprising. The Capitol didn’t care who you fucked as long as you married well and procreated with the right person. Evident by the way that no government official ever came to the penthouse telling him and Bellatrix off for conducting an affair.

“Bella!”

Tom turned and saw a tall woman walking towards him, when she got closer to them and he knew, without having to be introduced that this was Narcissa. She was beautiful, long face, full lips, pink hair but with strands of blond tastefully peeking through and a long sea-green dress that trailed behind her contorting around her slender and tall figure, but what called to his attention was her eyes… They were an eery eggshell white, and while they couldn’t be confused for the cornea, it was a little too offsetting.

“Cissa!” Bellatrix responded and stepped closer to hug her sister. Tom watched and was unsurprised to find genuine warmth in their embrace. Bellatrix’s hands were firmly on her sister’s back and Narcissa seemed to melt into her elder sister’s embrace.

“You were almost late.” The youngest sister nagged a little, and her voice was almost pleasant, melodic with a softness that seemed real, unlike Bellatrix’s lower tones with a hint of steel peeking through occasionally.

Bellatrix stepped off the hug with a final squeeze and turned to look at him even as she talked with her sister, “I’m sorry Cissa, but we were a little delayed at the penthouse.”

The look of awe in Narcissa’s eyes was very flattering, and when she stepped forward, he saw that while her hands weren’t trembling with excitement; they were close. He made sure to take her hand and kiss it, and the way she flushed under his attention told him that any and all transgressions that might happen would be forgiven.

“Lady Malfoy,” he said with as much charm as he could put in his voice without sounding fake, “It is a pleasure to meet you, although I do feel like I know you already. Your sister sings you praises every chance she gets.”

“Don’t flatter her too much,” Bellatrix said with a glint of mischief in her eyes, “She’s prone to fainting spells.”

“That was once!” Narcissa argued back immediately, and a perplexed Tom watched the two aristocratic women descend into children in front of his very eyes, “It was hot! I was wearing that wretched corset that you gave, and Lucius had just proposed to me! Would you stop bring that up every time a man compliments me?”

“When it stops being funny, I will.” Bellatrix said, and then turned to him to continue in a conspiratory tone, “She fell right into a fountain making her makeup run down her face. She looked like a sad clown!”

“BELLATRIX!” The yell came off high pitched and embarrassed.

Tom watched the youngest sister reach around her and throw the closest thing to her, which happed to be a vase of flowers, in the direction of him and Bellatrix. His escort seemed to be waiting for it because she dodged at the last second bringing him along with her, making them escape the vase, the flowers and the water.

“What’s going-**_UGH_**!”

The man that had suddenly appeared behind him wasn’t so lucky, and as the vase hit the man’s stomach and he doubled over in pain, Tom was able to notice that the colour of the suit that the man was wearing seemed to match Narcissa’s perfectly. If he had to guess this was Lucius Malfoy.

Bellatrix’s cackle as the man struggled to rise to his feet again and Narcissa’s apologetic whisper of ‘Darling!’ was enough to confirm his suspicions. He turned to look at Bellatrix was absolutely _not_ trying to mask her laughter at seeing her brother-in-law in pain. 

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” He muttered to Bellatrix.

“Oh, absolutely.” The woman was absolutely shameless.

Lucius had clearly heard his sister-in-law, and while leaning on his wife to stand up again, snarled “Bellatrix!”, anger colouring his tone and twisting his face. It was a handsome face, aristocratic in many ways with chilling blue eyes.

“Come now, _brother_,” Bellatrix said, mocking in her every gesture, “It was just a bit of fun.”

“I’m going to have to change!”, the green-haired man complained, and Tom could hear actual hurt in his voice, “I’m going to clash with Cissa!” Tom felt his eyebrow rise at the current situation and… Really? That was what he was worried about? What a weakling. He wouldn’t last two minutes in the Arena.

“Yes, what a shame.” Bellatrix said in a deadpan tone, rolling her eyes at her bother-in-law.

“Bella!” Narcissa scolded again, and Tom was starting to really hate her nagging tone. It was mighty irritating. But the woman said nothing more and turned to her husband, saying soothingly “Go on, dear, go change. And put Draco in bed, please.”

Lucius glared at Bellatrix and she merely returned it with a smirk. Narcissa noticed it but only after Lucius left did she turn again to her sister.

“What the bloody hell, Bellatrix?” Narcissa bite out the curse and Tom was sure he looked as surprised as Bellatrix looked smug… He hadn’t figured Narcissa for the type who knew how to swear.

“He appeared out of nowhere.” Bellatrix said unconvincingly and Tom shook his head. That was _weak._

“You know I’d believe that it this was the first time it happened!” Narcissa yelled quietly, through gritted teeth and Tom could finally see a little bit of resemblance between her and Bellatrix, “Admit that you hate him and-…”

“I hate him.” Bellatrix said immediately.

Narcissa huffed, and just as she was about to yell at her sister again, a cold, feminine voice came from their left Tom had the privilege of seeing both Narcissa and Bellatrix freeze and wince when the voice reached their ears.

“What’s going on here?”

Tom turned his gaze from the sisters to look at the woman. He hummed, a little surprised, when he saw her. He didn’t need to guess who this was either; Druella Black, Bellatrix’s mother although, Narcissa was obviously _the_ copy of their mother. The woman was tall, with a long face and her hair wasn’t done in any crazy colour, it was in fact a pretty yellow that Tom was sure was painted to resemble the woman’s natural hair colour as closely as possible. She was beautiful too, in a more austere way than even Narcissa, her face set on a haughty expression.

Tom was surprised when, at the sight of Bellatrix and Narcissa, the woman’s cold aura seemed to steam off a bit, leaving an exasperated mother in its place.

“Are you two arguing about Lucius again?” Her voice was high and close to Narcissa’s too, Tom was starting to believe that the youngest Black sister had been cloned from their mother while Bellatrix clearly got the Black side.

“No.” Unison answers from both sisters who looked properly chastised. Tom stifled a chuckle; he had never seen Bellatrix this contrite before.

“Hmhm, I’m sure.” Druella eyed her daughters with an unimpressed look that Tom was sure all women gained during their pregnancy, “Bellatrix, be nice to your bother-in-law. And Narcissa? Control your fool of a husband.”

“Ah! See!” Bellatrix pointed at her mother triumphantly while looking pointedly at Narcissa.

“Mummy said be nice, Bella!” Narcissa echoed her mother, a childish intonation to her voice, trying to gather sympathy.

“Ohhh don’t you dare you that voice on me, Cissa! I _invented _that move!”

“_Girls_!” Druella sternly barked, with a careful poise that even Tom was impressed by, “For heaven’s sake, behave! Both of you sound like children.” Both sisters looked ready to argue, but Druella cut them off in a second, “Enough! Narcissa go dance with your husband. Bellatrix, Rodolphus Lestrange was here a minute ago, go find him and have a dance!”

“But mum!” Both women whined. Tom wasn’t sure this was a good look on Bellatrix; spoiled brat hardly counted as his turn-ons. But as spoilt children, a stern look from Druella solved any whining and they were off to do their mother’s biding.

“I’m sorry,” Tom was almost startled to see Druella directing herself at him, but she looked everything but sorry. She was looking at him like he was the scum of the Earth, but she insisted in making small talk with him, “They aren’t usually like that.”

“Unless they are together you mean?” He couldn’t help but give his take.

The woman looked at him a little surprised that he had gathered that much from the small interaction he had witnessed, but quickly hid her look, “Yes. Exactly. They are quite accomplished in their own right, of course, but when they’re together… It’s like they are children again.”

“I see.” He said. “Tom Riddle.” He introduced himself, although he really didn’t need to.

“I know who you are Mister Riddle.” Druella said icily, her calculating eyes never leaving his, this time the scorn was barely hidden, “Druella Black.” She finished, giving him her hand to kiss, which he did.

“Allow me escort you back to the party.” He said assertively, well aware that he should have _asked_, but the woman was eyeing with such disdain that he couldn’t debase himself further. An urgent need to make her _like _him arose within him, not only because of her money but because she had dismissed him so summarily. He wasn’t about to let that stand. 

He offered his arm to her which she took with sneering look in her eyes. Tom didn’t know how one could make a _look _look sneering but Druella seemed adept at it. He made small talk as they entered the grandiose Ballroom, and people stared at them as they did so.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen your husband.”

Druella’s crystal blue eyes turned to ice, “Nor shall you, Mister Riddle.”

Well, that was off to a great start. There were artic storms less cold than this woman. He didn’t get how Bellatrix – warm blooded, a firestorm – had grown up with someone as cold as this iceberg. If Tom had to guess, every bit of Bellatrix’s warmth came from her father, who he had never met nor had even heard Bellatrix speak about, _ever_.

He was about to curse Bellatrix to hell and back for not having prepped him better when the orchestra – a full orchestra too, 200 musicians for about 100 guests – started playing a waltz. There, a chance to redeem himself; he was always a good dancer, and no one would deny a dance with the Quarter Quell Victor.

“Lady Black,” that much, he remembered, “would you dance?” There should probably be something about ‘honour’ there, but Tom had too much of a backbone to bend that much.

She eyed him carefully, and Tom almost felt naked under her gaze.

“Let us see what you can do, Mister Riddle…” She took his hand and let him lead her to the centre of the ballroom.

They danced a few bars of the song, before Druella’s eyes – blue, he noted finally, pretty normal for a Capitol – came to rest on him, with a newfound respect. Seems like his dancing skills were on par with those of the High Class.

“Tell me, Mister Riddle,” she spoke after he’d spun her gracefully at the right cue, “Did my daughter teach you how to dance?”

“No.” He was perhaps a little too brisk, Druella was eyeing with a decidedly cold stare, “No.” he repeated a little more softly, “I learned early on after I won my Games.”

“Ahh, I see.” She commented, “You have a very light step, almost aristocratic you could say.”

Tom could see that Druella was trying to manoeuvre him into something. And if Tom had to bet, he would say that it had something to do with his mother’s family… It seemed that Druella had been doing some sleuthing on him and he had no doubt that she had found something; if Tom, freshly out of winning a Quarter Quell could figure out who his family had been, then Druella Black would have had no trouble finding it.

“My mother’s family they belonged to the Capitol.” He acknowledged; lying would do nothing to improve the situation, “the Gaunts.” He added.

“I see.” Druella said, her eyes still harsh and calculating, “I’m sorry for what happened to your family then.”

So, she was expecting him to lean on his mother’s family when in the presence of people like her and she didn’t approve of it. Tom knew that the stock you came from matter a lot in the Capitol; but the Gaunts were disgraced and the Riddle name belonged to him alone, a man that had won over 49 other people.

“I never knew them.” He said, dismissing his mother’s family for what he hoped was the last time, “Think nothing of it.”

“I see.” She repeated, and he saw her eyes lighting up with respect for his trying to make his own legacy, “Still, you’re from good stock then. No wonder you won your Games with such _finesse_.” Druella eyed him up and down, “Shame about your hair, Mister Riddle, green would have suited you tremendously well.”

Tom laughed, not entirely honestly but not completely false either, “I’m not so sure about that, Lady Black. But even if it is true, I’m afraid that the money I spent after my Games to make it healthy again is… compelling me… not to do anything to extravagant with it.”

The card of the ‘poor District boy that rose to be a Victor’ always worked wonders and this time was no different and this time it had the added bonus of denying his mother’s inheritance once more. Druella’s eyes softened considerably and her grip on his shoulder tightened too. A maternal look passed her eyes, and while Tom hadn’t figured her for that type of woman, he knew he had her in the bag.

A thought confirmed when as she talked next, it was with a fond tone in her voice.

“I suppose it makes sense.” Druella allowed, “And you are plenty handsome without any… add-ons.”

“Thank you, Lady Bla-…”

Druella waved him off, “You must call me Druella.” She insisted.

Hook, line and sinker. Tom was barely able to restrain himself not to smirk.

“Well, then, thank you, Druella.”

They danced a couple more bars before another man tried to cut in, but Druella refused to relinquish her hold on him. Tom could tell that she had more to tell him… More to test him on, perhaps. He took a strong hold of her waist and guided them in their third dance.

“You know, our Trixie used to have the biggest crush on you.” Druella’s delicate high laugh, so different than Bellatrix’ own, was soothing in a way he wasn’t expecting, “During your Games it was all ‘Oh, look at Tom!’, ‘See, Daddy he’s so clever!’ and ‘He’s going to win, Mummy, wait and see!’. It was _unbearable_.” The woman complained, and Tom had to smile, because he knew that tone, it was the same one Bellatrix used when she was _testing _someone.

Tom didn’t know what Druella Black could possibly be testing him on, but he figured she wouldn’t be that hard to charm, anyway. Tom had a feeling that all of Bellatrix’ intelligence, if it came from somewhere, it came from her father; her sister and her mother however seemed cut from the same useless, thoughtless crowd as the rest of the Capitol. Tom with a small smile turned the woman around only to then dip her as the song went on, a little too impolitely – a little too District-like – which the Capitols seemed to enjoy and fall for. The woman giggled and blushed, like he’d been expecting her to.

“Well,” Tom responded, pulling her upright again and moving again in tune with the song, “You simply _must _tell me more of _little Trixie._”

Druella looked delighted at him and started talking his ear off. Oh, Bellatrix would kill him for this, he was sure. Not that he cared, really, even if she could make his life miserable. He mentally winced a little at that, but still, now he had another weapon in his arsenal to tease her with. He spun a few more times around the dance floor with Druella, all the while, she regaled him with the most embarrassing stories of Bellatrix he ever had the pleasure to hear. He had a good time, surprising no one more than himself.

However, he couldn’t deny a certain relief when Bellatrix came over, tapping on her mother’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Mummy, but Abraxas wants to speak to you.”

Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy’s father and Bellatrix nephew’s grandfather. Tom didn’t remember it, but the wedding of Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy must have been quite the party. There were hardly two bigger names in the Capitol with the notable exception of Grindelwald’s own. The president, however, had no one to succeed him, and Tom wondered what would happen when the President finally died.

Druella excused herself with a small curtesy and a friendly pat on his shoulder which even Bellatrix rose her eyebrow at. He had done well and had truly charmed Druella despite their rocky start. Before he could say anything else, Bellatrix was stepping into his space and let him lead her in a dance.

“So,” she asked quietly while they moved along with the song playing, “You got along with Mummy?”

_‘Mummy’_, he almost snorted it was so childish but, he managed to contain himself enough to respond, “After a little hiccup, it was surprisingly easy.” 

“Hiccup? What hiccup?” She asked, a little disinterested as if she could not possibly fathom what could cause him and her mother to clash.

“Maybe your father?” He asked, a little too sarcastically, it was almost as if she had sent a trap for him. However, when she winced and her eyes watered a little, Tom felt a little bit of his irritation fade. He sighed, “Never mind, Bella, I got the gist of it.”

She gulped audibly, swallowing her obvious sadness, “I’m sorry, Tom, I completely… It passed me by completely. It’s not something people like mentioning at all, anymore. It never occurred to me that you might…”

“I said, ‘It’s fine’.” He didn’t want to know any of the family drama around Cygnus’ death. He had gotten the gist of it. It wasn’t a fresh wound, or he would have heard of it, but it was one that clearly hurt. He decided to switch the conversation, “Now, you have to tell me, _Trixie_,” he delighted in the way her eyes widened, “Is it true you had a poster of me and kissed it every night?”

Tom was never one to _appreciate _the way the Capitol defined fashion, but this year with its more subtle makeup, natural hair colours – while still using wigs, of course, too ordinary and the Capitol would collapse – and more normal colours, he did like it. Especially because he could see her face flaming red at the memory he invoked.

“Oh Gods.” She muttered while her eyes closed in complete embarrassment, “Mother.”

Tom laughed, an actual loud laugh that surprised even Bellatrix, “Quite.” He pulled her a little closer than was probably socially acceptable, “She told me quite the stories, _little Trixie._”

Bellatrix turned her face towards him, and their lips almost brushed with her move. He didn’t move away, not even when she glared at him. He didn’t hear anyone gasp in shock, so he assumed that the company they were keeping was either a little more discrete than usual or a lot more drunk than he thought.

“You call me that again, and you can start planning how you are going to spend your nights _alone_.” She commented briefly as if she was talking of the weather.

He chuckled as he twirled around the ballroom. He doubted anything like that would ever happen, not with the way she had practically climbed him when she had first seen the suit he was wearing that night. Hell, with that reaction, it was a safe bet that he could probably entice her to let him fuck her in the gardens. She seemed to know her threat fell flat because soon enough, she too was chuckling alongside him at the possibility of _that._

“You must have charmed my mother well and truly for her to tell you anything about little old me.” She remarked playfully, swaying with him to the song.

“Yes, well.” He lifted his head arrogantly and twirled her around.

Bellatrix laughed, a laugh low and rough that had enticed many a man, himself included, as she turned, “But she still nagged you about your hair, didn’t she?”

“Apparently it’s a blasphemy that it’s not green.” He rolled his eyes at her.

Bellatrix hummed, “Please don’t. I like your hair.”

Tom snorted quietly as to not draw attention, “Yes, Bella, because I’m in the habit of doing things just because you like it.”

“Well, I can think of something we’ll both like.” He almost shivered when she casually bit his ear. He quickly looked around to see if anyone saw them, but everyone else was well and truly drunk… They could sneak out and then fuck in one of her sister’s many unattended guest rooms.

Tom pulled her a little closer, making her feel how aroused he was, she didn’t moan but her eyes glazed over a little, “Let’s go upstairs, there must be a room…” He trailed off, letting the thought hang in the ardent air between them.

Bellatrix hummed, and nodded, before shaking her head, her eyes cleared a little, looking regretful, “We have to go promote the new Capitol Club. We’ll have to meet Antonin, Amelia, and Barty there too.”

Tom groaned aloud, his head wanting to fall to the valley of her neck and not come up for a couple hours. He did not want to go to see their ‘friends’, he didn’t want to go and deal with a drunk Antonin, a miserable Amelia and an excitable Barty.

There were consequences to always being in the city and one of them was having to promote Clubs and Restaurants for the government. Tom, Amelia, Antonin and Barty were often forced to do so, since their ‘friendship’ was well documented and quite profitable. Rowena sometimes joined them, when they had to promote some restaurant or another, but when it came to bars and clubs, the seventy-three-year-old woman more often than not, skipped the party. Bellatrix always joined them at the end of the night, after having made the necessary appearances at the Capitol parties she was required to attend. 

That night, the party _to be at_, had been the bash her parents –well, her _mother _was throwing. So, for once, she would spend the entire night with them. He wasn’t sure that was a good idea, having her close by for hours without being able to have her how he wanted to, having her seating next to him while drink and conversation flowed easily and he could do nothing but look…

Oh, he _so_ did not want to go.

“Can we just not go today?” He tried, and she snorted.

“Not unless you want an appearance from the Peacekeepers at the penthouse.”

He hated being told what to do, wondered if there was a way to escape this forced compliance. He understood it to be a _rebellious _thought, and while there was always some District or another _resisting_, it was dealt with far too quickly to ever change anything except how bad that particular District would be treated by the Capitol.

“Fine.” He grumbled, “What time is it?”

“Two-thirty. That’s why I cut in; we need to start saying our goodbyes.”

Two-thirty in the Capitol was still considered early while in the Districts most people would be in the middle of sleep. Parties in the Capitol went well over the six-in-the-morning mark and the city only truly started functioning at one-in-the-afternoon. Even during the Games, only the sponsors and escorts ever got up any sooner than noon.

He sighed, that meant he still had four hours to go before he could be back in the penthouse, “Okay, I’ll start with your mother and then-…”

“My sister and her husband, and then you can do our sponsors.”

“I know.” He grumbled again, not in the mood to schmooze any more than he already had.

“Be good,” she advised and leaned against him, “and I’ll have a treat for you.”

Despite her warning, he once again protested, “I’m not a child.”

“I certainly hope not, or what I have planned would come off very differently.”

He glared at her unconvincingly, his breath coming out in a huff, leaving her smirking slightly while she disentangled herself from him and took a step back.

“I already said goodbye to Mummy and Cissa. I still have some other people to say goodbye to but then I’ll go bring the car around.”

By ‘_car_’ she meant ‘limousine’ since they couldn’t drive themselves to the club per Capitol’s orders and by ‘_I’ll bring_’ she meant that her driver would bring it around. The lives of the wealthy in the Capitol was full of euphemisms, rewording and utter lack of directness. Sighing heavily, Tom walked towards Druella who was still talking with Abraxas.

“Ah, Mister Riddle!” Abraxas greeted, his cold blue eyes with tattooed feathers in their wake glimmered at the sight of him, “Druella was just telling me how charming you are. Not that I’m surprised. After all, I always wanted to meet you and a Malfoy only appreciates the best.”

If Lucius was pretentious, then his father blew the scale. Looking at him, tall – but not taller than him – and slender with blue-eyed and hair painted a light teal and suit to match… Well, Tom had seen far worse in the Capitol. Now, from his affect Tom couldn’t decipher if Abraxas wanted to meet him out of genuine interest to know him or if the elder Malfoy wanted an **_Appointment_**_. _A far too common dilemma he found himself in.

“Mister Malfoy.” He stepped forward and took Abraxas’s hand in a handshake and squeezed it tight. Abraxas’s grin never diminished, but his eyes visibly cooled.

“I must ask,” another man, this time about Tom’s age, turned the attention to himself, “What’s it like working with Bella?” The man then seemed to remember that he hadn’t introduced himself, and rolled his admittedly charming brown eyes at himself, “Oh, where are my manners…” He extended his big hand towards Tom, “Rodolphus Lestrange, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Tom took the hand and was surprised to find a firm handshake in his wake. He took a look at Rodolphus; the man was taller than him which annoyed him greatly, and he was broad too with his frame riddled with muscles. His face was broad and well defined covered in a carefully intricate trimmed beard, big lips, darker tanned skin and a head full of a mop of almost blinding red curls. Tom hated him immediately but couldn’t quite put his finger on why. He was sure it had nothing to do with the fact that the man had called Bellatrix, ‘Bella’.

“It’s fun.” Especially when they got to fuck at parties. But when the three people around him laughed, Druella and Rodolphus a little fondly while Abraxas was considerably more insulting, Tom decided to inject a little bit more humour in his remark, “When she isn’t being hair-pulling mad, that is.” More chuckles. He then turned to Rodolphus, unable to rest his curiosity, “I have to ask Rodolphus, you seem to be well acquainted with Bella, might I wonder…”

“Oh,” Rodolphus laughed, but there was a little bit resentment that he couldn’t mask, “We were engaged until about 3 or so years ago.”

Tom had to fight to keep his expression blank. She had been engaged? Why hadn’t she told him? Tom internally shook off the thought; it had nothing to do with him. Bellatrix could date whoever she wanted, after all, their arrangement certainly wasn’t exclusive. Still, he had never even heard of it in the newspapers. And in the past years he had never seen her sneak off… How odd.

“Well,” Druella interrupted his thoughts, “’_Engaged_’ is a strong word… They were promised to each other since they were children, but since Bella took over as Head of the Family the contract has been steadily being resolved.” 

“I see.” He said. So, she _hadn’t_ been hiding anything worthwhile form him... “Well, if you excuse me there are some people I must still see. It has been a pleasure, Druella.” Abraxas and Rodolphus eyes were wide at his use of her given name, “Mister Malfoy. Mister Lestrange.”

It took him another hour or so to say goodbye to the people he needed to, he occasionally saw glimpses of Bellatrix doing the same, but eventually lost her completely in the crowd. He was just finishing talking to one of his biggest sponsors when he finally caught a glimpse of her nodding at him that she was finally getting the limousine ready for them to leave.

Tom walked off the Ballroom after saying goodbye to the man and went into the reception hall to gather his outer coat. Gods, he wanted to go home and have a drink; he thought he deserved it after spending the night dodging and manoeuvring the battlefield in that Ballroom. Before he could finally escape and get some much-needed clear air, something stopped him by grabbing his arm and pulling him back. Tom bite back the instinct to come out swinging.

“You don’t belong here.” Abraxas Malfoy said to his face, his hand tightening on his arm.

“And yet, here I am.” Tom couldn’t help but needle. Oh, how he wanted to punch the living hell out of Abraxas Malfoy.

“Just because that idiot girl is your escort…” Abraxas said, “She’ll come to her sense soon enough and marry Rodolphus like she should. And you’ll be back to your wretched life.” The man tightened the grip on his arm, his mouth twisting in a snarl, “You’ll never be like us.”

Tom rose to his full height, wrangled his arm out of Abraxas’s hands and he knew his eyes took on that shade that intuited the murderer he was, “Then what are you so afraid of?”

Tom then took off to the entrance of the Manor, leaving behind a fuming Abraxas and a smirking Druella. She really had liked him. At least the night wasn’t a _total_ nightmare. He shrugged on his coat and waited for Bellatrix to arrive. When the white gleaming long limousine arrived first and Bellatrix was nowhere to be seen, Tom grunted in discontent. Of all the times for the woman to be late…

When the limousine pulled over, he looked around one more time for Bellatrix until the door opened and he saw her inside. He looked around and saw if there was anyone who was watching them. Satisfied that they were alone, he took a long look, appreciating her. She was laying down on the seat, wig off and hair cascading down her back, legs spread open waiting for him, eyes hungry and lower red painted lip entrapped between her white teeth. Her hand was lifted and reaching towards him.

He leaned back a little, ensnaring the picture to memory, and decided to tease her a little.

“Oh, I don’t know, Bella,” He smirked, “I think I want you to beg a little.” 

She growled and quickly moved up, snatching his black tie between her deft fingers, and pulling him in towards her. The door barely closed behind them; the car barely started moving when her hands were already cupping his cock. He might have groaned a little too urgently.

Bellatrix kissed his jaw, nipping his skin a little, “Want to talk about begging now?”

“Shut up, or I’ll put that mouth to good use.” He threatened.

Bellatrix pouted, “_Or_?” She asked in a disappointed tone, although her eyes were smiling and her eyebrows were raised, amused; her intention was very clear.

“Fuck.” Oh, he wanted that. “I want that.” His brain was broken, clearly. “I mean-,” She was laughing, now, low and rough. _Fuck._

“Oh, I know what you mean, darling.” She got up and got down on her knees between his legs, but before opening the rest of his zipper, warned him, “Don’t grab my hair.”

The car rode on, every bump and swirled curve making him shiver in her mouth. His hands, though, were definitely buried in her ebony-black curls, but she didn’t seem to mind. They managed to compose themselves before the limousine stopped.

Cameras exploded into action when they got out of the gleaming white limousine; it was still smelling of artificial strawberry and champagne, but now it had the unmistakable musk of sex clinging to it, thankfully the car was too far away for the reporters to get a sniff at it.

Tom was sure the reporters were having a field night with them, coming from her sister’s Manor. He might be dressed in the same clothes he had left the Manor, but more casually, only in his white-shirt and black-trousers, no tie and no jacket. It really was all Bellatrix’ fault, who was still wearing her pristine red dress and yellow wig, she had used his jacket as a cover for her dress while she had knelt before him and as for his tie, well, she had used her tie to clean off her mouth after they – well, _he_ – had finished.

They waved at reporters and fans, unbothered by the yells and cheers and questions from fans and reporter’s alike. They spent some time with the fans, signing papers and arms and _breasts_ for some gods forsaken reason. But then were quickly ushered into the Club’s entrance. Colours exploded in his vision as soon as they entered the club, garish red, purple and pink lights swirling around in time with the loud music that vibrated out of the speakers, seemingly shaking the whole building with its excessively loud volume, booming all around him and Bellatrix.

Some people noticed him come in, as was usual. Despite the Barty Mania, he was still a popular Victor, the only Quarter Quell Victor remaining since Godric Gryffindor had died three-years ago. Women eyed him appreciatively, eyes running over his more-casual appearance, licking their lips, and almost making a move towards him. He was sure they would have if Bellatrix hadn’t tightened her grip on his waist. He smirked, because while he disliked the way she thought she had a claim on him, a jealous Bellatrix was always more likely to let him fuck her in a bathroom. When she noticed his smirk, she glared at him and stirred him towards the VIP section of the club to where their ‘friends’ would be.

They climbed the stairs and, just as they reached the last step, a yell ran out.

“BELLA!” Barty’s excited, puppy-like voice rose well above the music.

The boy had a huge crush on Bellatrix that bordered on adorable; he was always talking to her with a wolfish grin to his lips, extending his arm to escort her – even if she always picked Tom –, flirting with her so hard the cameras were starting to notice and comment on it, and even buying her an expensive gift for her birthday. The boy loved Bellatrix, with a sincere platonic crush. Most surprising of all Bellatrix _loved _Barty back. Not like all the other women did, no, she didn’t want him; but she was always playing with his hair, laughing at the boy’s stupid jokes, and comforting him after a particular bad **_Appointment_.** It wasn’t exactly motherly, but it was _familial_, which surprised him significantly.

He watched now as she hugged the boy close, much to the irritation of many women in the dance floor. 

“So, how was the party?” Barty asked, almost vibrating by having him and Bellatrix close. Amelia and Bellatrix shared an amused look between them while Antonin snorted unkindly, already a little more than drunk. 

“It was fine, boy.” Bellatrix answered for them, “Typical high-class.”

He wondered if getting a vase thrown at you by the hostess and arguing with the patriarch of one of the most power families in the country counted as ‘typical’, but he guessed that for all he knew, it might be typical for Bellatrix. She wasn’t exactly the most warm and fuzzy person in the world.

He and Bellatrix sat down and immediately two glasses of whiskey were put in front of them. Tom took a swallow of his while Bellatrix took the whole thing in one go. Both Barty and Amelia looked at her with confused frowns on their foreheads while Antonin chuckled drunkenly into his drink.

“I see that it was ‘fine’.” Amelia said with a smirk on her face.

“It _was_ fine. I just need to get a taste of something I ate out of my mouth.” Bellatrix answered casually, and Tom was glad that the music was so loud that no one heard him choke slightly on his drink. He was vaguely aware of Bellatrix discreetly patting his leg under the table.

“Ugh,” Barty apparently sympathised with Bellatrix, “Did they serve that Foie Gras crap again? That shit is nasty.”

“Don’t swear, boy.” Bellatrix nagged Barty, “You’re like twelve. You can’t swear yet.”

“I am _nineteen_!”

And so Barty and Bellatrix started the same argument that had every other week. Amelia and Tom rolled their eyes and moved closer together to speak with each other while Antonin snored quietly in the corner.

“So, really, how was it?” Amelia asked as he sat down next to her, Bellatrix’s and Barty’s bickering in the background.

“It really was fine.” He answered, deciding to keep the confrontation with Abraxas between the man and himself, “How was dinner?”

“Good. Never seen Rowena so happy in her life.” Amelia said, “Seems like Helena and Barty came to an… understanding.”

“Really…” Tom said, taking another sip of his whiskey.

Two years ago, the female Tribute from District Four was Helena Ravenclaw – Rowena’s granddaughter – and the old woman had been hysterical for the two weeks it took for the Games to resolve itself. Competent, but hysterical. In the end, Barty – eternally grateful to Rowena for helping him win the Games and protecting him from the **_Appointments _**– had rigged the Games for Helena; convincing the Head Gamemaker to dish out natural disaster after natural disaster to let Helena win.

After Helena’s win, Tom had never seen Rowena so relaxed, so aware, so eternally grateful to be alive. And from the way Barty now talked of Helena – eternally mentally damaged after having managed to kill a couple of Tributes before they started dying off like flies – Tom guessed that the boy was in love with Rowena’s girl.

“At least some good news.” He hummed around another sip of his glass.

Amelia snorted, “What’s gotten so you so down, Riddle? You’re usually livelier these days.”

“Oh, you mean besides the fact that tomorrow starts another round of Games I will inevitably lose?” He asked, bitter. Then turned his eyes towards her pretty brown, “And what do you mean ‘these days’?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Amelia moaned, and took a sip of her beer, “Another 23 kids sent to death.” Yes, Tom supposed there was _that _too, “And I mean that, before Bella, you used to be much more sourly at these things.”

“At least you have the luck of having alternate years, I have to this _every _year. We leave tomorrow night for another Reaping, or rather, tonight.” He said and then glared at her, “And you don’t know what you’re talking about. There is nothing between me and Bella.”

“Sure.” Amelia snorted loudly and Tom continued to glare at her, “Look, Riddle, I have nothing against it, that would be Antonin, there are certainly worse women to shack up with. Shame she's an escort, though, she's almost _pleasant_. For a Capitol.”

He tried to argue again that there was nothing between him and Bellatrix but even if there was they certainly would not shack up together, but before he could both he and Amelia turned towards Barty and Bellatrix when the boy’s fondly exasperated voice rose even above the loud beat of the music.

“I’m going _dancing _and _drinking_! Because I’m _nineteen_!” Barty finally made his move away from the argument with Bellatrix, who merely smirked at him before turning towards them.

“So whatcha talking about?” she asked, and Tom let Amelia fill her on their conversation and good news.

Two-or-so hours passed in the same fashion; Bellatrix and Amelia talking about something or another with Tom occasionally meddling in, Barty coming and going from the dance floor to the bar to their seat and back again and Antonin snoring in the corner. A few men came to ask Bellatrix and Amelia for a dance and a few women coming in to ask him too. After having danced with some random woman who had gotten far too handsy with him, he came back to his seat.

Out of the corner of his eye Tom saw some girl approach Barty with a flirty smile on her face and tensed up immediately. Girls always came to Barty, and more often than not, the kid handled them with finesse, but sometimes… Sometimes, they triggered Barty’s fight-or-flight instinct too much, and whenever that happened, some girl always ended up dead. It was never good to trigger a Victor, especially one as young and green as Barty.

Tom kept his eyes on Barty and noticed Bellatrix and Amelia doing the same while they talked at the barTom took another sip of his whiskey and when the girl started touching the boy’s arm a little too forcefully, he noticed Barty’s eyes glazing over, a haze covering its hazel colour. With no need to check with with Bellatrix or Amelia, each of them sprung out of their seats and got to work. Tom quickly reached Barty and grabbed him by the arm despite the kid almost resisting him and he was aware of the girl’s whine as he took Barty away from her, Amelia stepped in to calm the girl down, and Bellatrix did her best to keep the near-scandal contained.

Tom, feeling the boy get more and more agitated and starting to tense under his arm, glared over to the bartender until he showed him a private bathroom that he and Barty could use. He pushed the young Victor in the bathroom and quickly started running the water in sink and shoved Barty’s head under the running cold water. It wouldn’t do for Barty to fully succumb to his memories and started lashing out on instinct; Tom would win in a confrontation, but it wouldn’t be pretty.

“Boy,” Tom asked, as he lifted Barty’s head out of the water once he stopped squirming, “Are you with me?”

“Tom.” The boy cried, tears and snot running disgustingly down his face, “Tom. Tom. Please help.” Barty was gasping, huffing and almost heaving, “I don’t… I don’t… I can’t _breathe_. I can’t go back. I can’t-I can’t-I can’t…” the desperate, wailing voice kept repeating.

Tom wanked Barty the rest of the way away from the sink and tore off the boy’s tie and opened the first buttons of his soaked shirt. When that didn’t help, Tom shoved him against the cold water again. He let the boy settle a few seconds before pulling him out again.

“Are you with me?” He asked again.

The boy was panting, his hazel eyes wide and startled but not wild anymore, his nose was red and copper hair, wet… He looked a disgrace, but at least he seemed to cognizant of the situation. He started nodding wildly at him.

“I’m here. I’m here.” He said, panting. Tom let go of him and gave him space to breathe; Barty nodded thankfully at him, “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It was always the same; the kid created a mess, came to him for him to resolve it and then apologized like he had just murdered Tom’s puppy.

“It’s fine, Barty.” As always, just having Tom say his name seemed to calm him down further, the boy _trusted _him limitlessly, “It can happen to anyone.”

“You don’t get these episodes.” the boy muttered, “At least not in public.” Not at _all_, actually, Tom supposed he just didn’t feel the remorse the other Victors seemed to feel. “Do you at least get the nightmares too?”

He wasn’t one for nightmares, had had them sparingly during the 20 years since he had won. He figured he wasn’t much of a mourner and quite honestly, had he had probably just inherited his mother’s family’s dismissal for the lower Districts.

“No.” He decided to be honest, “Life in Twelve is not the same as life in Four, boy. Whatever I did to escape my horror of a future, I do not – I can_not _– regret.”

The boy hummed and then asked, “Does-Does Hagrid’s scream still haunt you?” Barty asked, his voice trembling and scared and almost hysterical. It was par for the course; the kid lost it every other month and no matter how much he liked Bellatrix, whenever he lost control like this, Barty always came to him. Always. But never had he asked him this question… No one had.

Tom closed his eyes and, in the darkness, could hear the loud, accented voice of the small giant that had tried to kill him; ‘_Ahhh! No! Please don’t do this!_’. Out of nowhere, the boy’s brown hair, broad face and thick beard entered his mind and Tom had to shake the image off of his head. 

Before Tom could answer, Bellatrix’s voice echoed outside the door.

“Tom? Barty?” He and Barty shared another look, and opened the door for her, “The owner is closing the club early for tonight, we can go. And we still need to get Antonin.” They all turned to look at Antonin who was snoring in a corner, holding a bottle of whiskey close to him. “Barty, would you mind getting him?” Bellatrix knew that after one of his accidents the boy needed to feel useful.

“Of course not, Bella.” The boy smiled back at her, a grin back in place and spreading across his face.

There it was again, that _fondness _they had for each other that baffled Tom. With Barty and Amelia too distracted trying to haul Antonin out of his seat, Tom finally asked what was that all about, she shrugged and answered, casually, even if there was a glimmer of pain to her voice, imperceptible to anyone but him.

“I used to have cousins, Regulus and Sirius. Reggie died, young, the same illness that affected my father.”

He frowned at that, not only at the easiness she now talked of her family when before he had to use tweezers but also that he hadn’t known her father had died from a genetic disease, which was rare in the Capitol. And yet, there was something in her tone that indicated something more behind it, but Tom doubted she’d tell him, not when she avoided the question first, so he didn’t ask more about Regulus and instead focused on the other cousin.

“And Sirius?”

Bellatrix chuckled, bitterly, “Lost to us, as well.”

Not dead then, but unreachable. Weird, these Blacks, so unlike normal Capitol citizens.

“So, which one does the boy remind you of?”

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t give any physical indication that she was lying, but he knew her to be lying, “Regulus.”

Tom hummed non-committedly. She must have had her reasons to be lying; maybe Sirius had been a dissident, and she didn’t want to associate Barty with him. Tom snorted and immediately erased that thought from his head; Blacks weren’t traitors, and they never would be.

Tom gulped down the rest of his drink just as the bar was closing; he, Bellatrix, Antonin, Amelia, and Barty left the bar, Antonin swaying heavily under the alcohol while Barty and Amelia helped him along, as he and Bellatrix walked in front, arm-in-arm, taking all the press off the Capitol’s golden boy. This was something he could always count on; Bellatrix and him stealing the show. Tom didn’t bother hiding his smirk, his stint as a bad boy was so well ingrained in people’s memories that he could get away with it.

Their little group entered the same limousine and with a few choice words with the driver they were off. While the limousine carried them off to the Training Centre, Bellatrix and he were whispering quietly on their side of the seat, talking about this year’s strategy for the Games. Soon enough they arrived at the Training Centre and went to their respective floors, when they arrived at theirs Bellatrix and Tom both wandered into their own bedrooms to take off their clothes.

Afterward they both went back into the sitting room; the sun was rising but they weren’t particularly in the mood to sleep yet. They both sat on the large couch and Tom offered a cigar from the couch’s side table while Bellatrix gave him the pack of cigarettes that had been her purse all night. As they both indulged in their separate vices, while they discussed the itinerary for tomorrow.

Tom didn’t know when it happened, but he fell asleep on the couch, the warm sun and Bellatrix’s warm body and voice providing him with a comfortable lull to sleep.

.

.

.

His sleep was interrupted by the start of a dream; he was in the Arena again – a Tribute once more – Hagrid’s voice echoed behind him, but when he turned he saw Barty with a golden Trident aimed at him and next to him Bellatrix, Druella and Abraxas just laughing as the golden weapon imbedded itself in his throat.

Tom sat up with a start, breathing heavily and sweating. He quickly looked around him and the first thing he saw was Bellatrix looking at him, her eyes wide – fear colouring her grey-nearly-white eyes – and holding tight to a blanket. What was she doing in his bedroom while he slept?

“You’re still here?” He asked softly, rubbing the sleep off his eyes, and he took in his surroundings, “_We_’re still here?” While Bellatrix and him always went to their respective rooms every night, he really didn’t mind that they had slept together this time. It felt… nice, despite the nightmare.

“We fell asleep in the sofa.” Bellatrix whispered, “I’ll go to my room now.” She turned, but before she left to her room completely, she asked him, “Are you… okay?”

“Yes. Just go.” He said sternly. The way she was quick to leave the sofa left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She spared him one last look before leaving him alone. He sighed and got up to go to his bedroom to try and get some sleep. It was all in vain because he spent the rest of the day turning around in the bed trying to find a better position to sleep in; the bed felt surprisingly empty and he might have missed the warmth of Bellatrix’s body.

He shook that thought out of his head; he was restless clearly, making things up and creating problems where there weren’t any.

It was probably just the fact that he was going to go back to the District tomorrow and ever since he started spending his time in the Capitol people in the district were less… accommodating when he went back. With a final sigh, turned on his stomach and slid over to the centre of the bed… Just because he was restless didn’t mean he needed her body next to him to fall asleep.

He spent the rest of the day in useless turning and twist about the bed and sleep never took hold of him again. When late that night – well, midnight really – Bellatrix called him for breakfast, the circles under his eyes had to be disguised under a pair of sunglasses. If Bellatrix looked to be in the same predicament as him, neither of them mentioned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Barty Crouch was originally supposed to be Cedric Diggory, but his reliance on Tom and Bellatrix quickly incremented to the point where Cedric made no sense in this context.  
BTW, Happy birthday, Voldy!


	4. The 70th Hunger Games - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the 70th Hunger Games, now with Plot^tm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter is dedicated at thearfuldodger for being generally amazing and always willing to listen to my dumb HC and plot for any and all fanfic. Thank you, my friend.

After twenty-years of making this journey, the travel time in the train didn’t even phase him anymore. It was just another pretty little insignificant tradition that had started to grate on his mind for a long, long time.

He kept to himself, Bellatrix was already making some sort of arrangements for the year; likely something to do with the stylists – which would be atrocious, as they were last year and would be the next – and he let himself go outside and smoke a cigarette. There was something in the back of his mind that didn’t let him rest, something that didn’t leave his mind. The nightmare had only been the beginning; he was not sleeping, barely eating and it was starting to drive both himself and Bellatrix crazy.

Speaking of her, he heard the door almost slam open and then close with a bang as she stormed her way into the room. Tom sighed, crushed the cigarette under his heel – since nothing would pass the barrier around the train’s balcony – and went back inside. He felt his mouth stretch to an involuntary smile as he heard her diatribe about the new stylist.

They didn’t really _try _anymore. There was no point in trying to win the Games with the Tributes that they got – underfed and underfunded – even if he _had _come around to try and make a play for the title. He was sure that Bellatrix just wanted the bragging rights.

“Come on, Bella,” he called to her as he sat on the couch, “We both know why you came in here.”

An angry Bellatrix always wanted one thing from him, and he was not opposed. She glared at him, upset that he had stopped her mid-speech, but she did make her way unto the couch. He let out a muffled groan as she straddled him, a bit more forceful than she should have and he was about to protest when her fingers wrangled themselves into his tie and pulled him to a kiss.

He groaned into her mouth as her lips came crashing down on him, teeth and tongue mixing in dance they had perfected along the years. His hands went to her waist as she started grinding against his lap making her rub harder against him as he pressed their bodies together. Tearing himself away from her mouth with a gasp, he didn’t give her time to breath before latching his mouth upon the column of her delicate neck, her hands suddenly buried themselves in his hair as she arched back giving him more access.

Groaning, he grasped at her hair – still driving him mad – and pulled her towards him, making the sweet grind she had build up turn hotter and heavier as she leaned forward to grasp his neck and lean over to liking the juncture where his neck met his ear, before exhaling heavily into his ear. He enjoyed it whenever she talked during sex, it was remarkably attractive how low her voice would go, how utterly filthy her words would get and how he would let himself go; imagine that she was one of those Capitol women he could fuck the stupid out of with no fear of repercussion, instead of the friend she had become. 

Nevertheless, the last time they had done this in this particular carriage, she had gone too far – or too _vulgar_ – for him to take it seriously again, especially in this particular setting. Once she put her lips to his hear and her voice acquired that low timbre, he was unable to stop himself from remembering.

Powerless to stop himself, he might have let out an unflattering snicker against her neck, prompting her to rake her nails down his nape in admonishment which only made him laugh harder. Mood utterly destroyed, Bellatrix groaned and stopped moving on top of his lap, lifting herself up and then sitting down across from him on the sofa while he still sniggered quietly, lost in the memory of her flub.

He had enough fortitude to stop to see her roll her uncanny grey-nearly-white eyes at him and her lips being puckered into a pout.

“Are you _ever _going to let that one go? It’s been a year!”

“That you thought that calling me ‘baby’ would turn me on?” He asked deadpan, making sure to smile wickedly at her as she rubbed her temples with her hand, “Unlikely.”

“I’ll have you know that most people out there would kill for me to call them anything at _all_, much less ‘baby’.”

Bellatrix sighed, and served herself a glass of whiskey with the customary three rocks of ice and dash of a fizzy Capitol drink that would rotten most teeth if not for the excellent surgery available in the city. Tom, supressing his own eye roll at seeing her ruin a perfectly good whiskey with the sugary add-on, watched as Bellatrix rolled the glass in her hand before taking a gulp of the drink.

“Most people have no account for taste.”

His pointed glare at her drink did nothing to stop her from taking another sip. In fact, she did so with a spoiled grin stretching across her red lips making him roll his eyes again, before picking up the book he had discarded when he had first stepped outside for his smoke.

Comfortable silence did not come easy to Tom, not with _company _anyway, but Bellatrix – as was becoming alarmingly frequent – seemed to be the exception to his every rule. It should have concerned him, but it didn’t; not really, not in a way that he would have to act against it. Still, it was… nice, he supposed, to simply allow himself to be in silent company while he read while she looked outside the window as the train rushed by the countryside.

It was another couple of hours before they arrived at their destination, and once the train came to a stop both he and Bellatrix had redressed themselves, Tom in a fashion more in tone with his District – leaving the more vibrant colours behind for a more demure apparel – and Bellatrix going the opposite and making herself uber Capitol. Each time she put on the makeup and the horrendous dresses that made up the season of the Games, it seemed that each time she looked more and more like a clown.

It also might be that his perception of her was changing, seeing her so often barefaced and in more sedate clothes. But Tom didn’t want to dwell on _that _particular theory.

As it was, there was nothing either of them could do in relation to it, so off they went to sort out another tribute that would die in a couple of weeks and then go back to their usual normalcy of the rest of the year reserving, of course, the following month of March for the Victory Tour of whichever District won the Games that year.

Same speech, same propaganda, practically identical faces too. Every year it was the same, over and over. This time when Bellatrix took the podium to withdraw a girl’s name she did so with some amount of flare, having grown fully into her role as a Capitol scion for the people in the District. Tom barely paid attention to the girl that was called; a small, thirteen-year-old that got winded as she got up the stairs. As for the boy, when Tom watched Bellatrix tense slightly as she read the slip of paper, he certainly tried to pay attention.

“Percy Weasley.”

Murmurings ran around the crowd. It was unusual for a family to be systematically picked as the Weasleys were being, as if the Capitol was trying to pick at the family one by one until no Weasleys remained. Tom knew that it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility for the Capitol, but he doubted that the Weasley family had done anything to warrant such a punishment. The odds were simply not in the ginger family’s favour.

Tom watched as Bellatrix said her parting words once the boy had made his way to the podium and followed behind the Peacekeepers into the Hall as they let the families in to say goodbye. He saw, a curiosity springing in the back of his mind, as the other Weasley children entered their brother’s room while Molly was nowhere to be seen, although Tom had seen her outside when her sons name had been called.

Tense minutes passed as he wondered where the zealous mother was.

Had she been overwhelmed by an almost guaranteed loss of another son? Was she planning on doing something utterly stupid – like visibly opposing the Capitol – and doom the whole District along with herself? He didn’t have to wonder for much longer, because just then he heard the tattle-tale sound of someone coming up the stairs and knew it to be her. When he turned to watch her pass he almost cursed as he saw the bee-line she was making towards him.

He had seen that look directed towards him a few times during the years; it was a look of desperation and hope mixed together to entice a lesser man to make promises he would not be able to keep. As expected, it had never worked on Tom and it wouldn’t work now, especially not coming from Molly Weasley of all people. 

“You have to help him, please. I can’t’-I can’t…”Molly, to her credit did not let the tears that clouded her eyes fall but her body trembled with emotion and she wrapped her arms around herself, “I can’t lose him too…Not after we lost Arthur this year.”

“Hmm,” there wasn’t much else that he could say, was there? The man was dead, and it was predictable that if the Weasley’s had been struggling before they would be doubly so now, with no salary – no matter how low it had been, it had been _steady_ – to depend on. The fact that none of the kids were old enough to work in the mines – mainly because the oldest, the second oldest, and now third oldest were picked as tributes – did not help matters at all. If when he came back next summer the Weasley family still existed it’d be a godsdamned miracle.

“Is that it?!” Molly almost screeched, her hysterical timbre almost made the vases behind him dance, “Is that all you have to say? You’ve known him all your life!”

Tom sighed; this is why he hated leaving his house, why he hated coming here. What could he say to these simple, subpar people? Those who had no providence to care for themselves, those who made things _worse _on themselves almost out of a desperate need to prove that they were above the reprehensible society they lived in. Or, maybe, simply to play themselves as martyrs and victim when everything inevitably went to shit.

He hated these people. Molly Weasley in particular, with her seven children, loving husband and generally outwardly happy life while said children starved, said husband worked himself dead in the mines, and her children were almost systematically being chosen as Tributes, and through it all the woman managed to keep her positive, naïve, reckless outlook on life.

Watching her crumble in any circumstance, but _these _in particular, was especially delicious even if ultimately frustrating that he had to deal with it.

“What do you want me to say, hmm, Missus Weasley?” He asked, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in utter frustration, “Want me to say, ‘I’m sorry your husband died’, what would that serve you? Want me to bring him back? I can’t. Want me to promise to bring your son back? I can’t do that either.”

“That’s your job!” Molly pleaded at him, “Help _him!_ Please.”

“He’s too skinny, too dumb and too apathic to ever win.”

“You were all those things!” Molly screamed, “And you won! You aren’t Victor material either, Tom. And everyone knows it. Even that escort wants to be away from you as soon as possible, getting close to that Crouch boy! At least bring _one _home. Bring _my son_, home!”

He growled and walked forward, intending on gripping her arm and pulling her towards him so he could shake the stupid out of her. She didn’t get what victors went through, she didn’t get that one step out of line for him and the whole District would be swallowed up in pain and misery, she didn’t get that her precious boy would be sold off to the highest bidder as soon as the games were over. She didn’t get shit.

But those words… Those _damn _words.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was advancing – almost blindly – guided by an invisible force, brain muddled by lack of sleep and food, by some ranging headache that threatened to split his head opened, by words inside his head that were not his own. He was about to reach the shorter, stauncher woman with the infuriating pale ginger hair and watched with satisfaction as the woman’s brown eyes narrowed in shock and fear and she recoiled to herself. Tom smiled – a wicked cruel smile, he was sure – as his hands itched to stretch and wrap around the neck and squeeze the life out of-

“It’s time.”

Tom stopped abruptly, almost mid-step, when the low voice of his escort sounded from behind him. Both her and Molly took a step back, hers much more harshly than his was. Before he could truly process who exactly had spoken, the spice-loaded scent of Bellatrix’s perfume filled the landing area. Vaguely aware of what he had been about to do, and disturbed by his almost lapse, he let Bellatrix come rest beside him and let her arm envelope itself around his elbow.

“But I haven’t…” Molly went pale-white in an instant, “I haven’t been inside yet.”

“Yes, well, it’s still time anyway.” Rotten-sweet tone, all done with the intent of riling Molly up.

Perhaps she _had _heard everything and was exacting her own revenge on his behalf. Bellatrix was surprisingly – or maybe not _that_ surprising – fastidiously overprotective of him. A trait that he hated to the depths of his soul – he didn’t need any help, never had needed any help – but this time, when he had been about to do heaven knows what to the Weasley Matriarch, he could almost appreciate her quick rescue.

Tom composed himself, straightening his jacket and tie, and looking at Molly with something akin to disdain, “Tough luck, Mrs. Weasley, I am afraid that it is what it is.”

“No! **_NO_**!”

The desperate wail was not surprising, nor was the way the mother was advancing towards Tom as if to do what he had been about to do with her before Bellatrix arrived. Tom easily grabbed the hands that had tried to grasp him and scratch him and held the woman at arm’s length as she struggled to change something she had no hope of changing. Bellatrix, more than used to people trying to accost him – although, to be fair, usually it was women who were trying to sleep with him not tear his eyes out – quickly and calmly called the Peacekeepers. 

The white-armoured men arrived quickly – and Tom for once was glad for it – and wrangled the woman out his arms. Tom quickly composed himself again, straightening his clothes with a careless shrug he had to feign for once. He exchanged a look with Bellatrix before he took the new tributes.

The girl, whose name Tom had already forgotten – or, more accurately, hadn’t even heard in the first place – was shaking and trying to burrow herself in her parents’ arms while the Peacekeepers wrangled her out of the room, the parents holding each other and crying but trying to send the daughter away, trying to project some loyalty to the Capitol and escape the punishment that Molly was going through now.

The Weasley boy left his own room alone, of course, since his brothers and sister had left the room long ago assured that their mother would enter the room after them. If only the woman hadn’t decided to try and rile Tom up, she might have had the chance to.

The boy, taller but far skinnier than his brothers had been, slide over to where Tom was, the deep-set brown eyes watching the spectacle that the other girl was making in silence. Before Tom could ask what exactly did the boy want from him, he heard the timid voice of the third-born – and now eldest – Weasley boy.

“My family doesn’t understand, not like them.” Percy mumbled, head nodding towards the couple holding themselves away from their sobbing daughter, “Father is gone, and Mother puts all her attention on my younger brothers, showering them with affection as if it would solve anything… They just don’t _understand_.”

Tom wondered if it was worth to let the pale ginger-haired boy know that his mother was probably being flogged – or having rations taken away from her, a fate far worse than the flogging to be frank – for trying to go see him. He doubted it would make much of a difference, this boy was already gone. Although he seemed infinitely more observant than the rest of the District; he might have done great _after _the Games, but he didn’t have a chance of winning.

Tom only grunted and, for once, offered a pat on a boy’s shoulder. Weasley seemed smart enough to figure out what it was meant to convey, that he was as good as dead, that this would be the last he saw of these people and this District. The boy chuckled bitterly, and with a feigned calm started walking towards the car that awaited them all downstairs.

Bypassing the crowd that gathered at the exit, Tom quickly entered the car and the sounds of muffled sobs coming from the girl Tribute being steadily ignored by Bellatrix, and Percy was looking outside the window of the car, taking it all in for what could well be – and would most likely be – a last time. 

Once the car started moving, Tom turned to Bellatrix who was already stretching a useless strategy on a notebook, one that would be utterly useless once again. Unable to, for some reason, keep Molly’s words out of his head he found himself speaking almost unbidden.

“We should stop being around Barty.” He said, quietly, almost to himself. As if, for some unknown reason, he was unsure of his decision.

“…What?” Bellatrix looked up from her notebook to arch her eyebrow at him, confused by his words, “Why?”

“People are talking about being too close to him.”

“Yes, as they should.” Bellatrix blinked owlishly at him, “We agreed it was a good idea. Good PR, even.” 

Tom supressed a distressed grunt and instead gave a noncommittal hum, as if agreeing with her. Bellatrix noted of course, since she unfortunately knew her almost as well as he knew her but he gave her a wave of his hand for her to let the issue go and, after a second glance as if to ascertain that everything was under control at the very least, she let him stew in his misery and turned back to work.

* * *

The next time he saw her after they boarded the train was mere hours before they arrived at the Capitol, Bellatrix having – uncharacteristically – skipped both dinner and breakfast as they made their trek through the countryside.

Tom entered her room to find her pacing, one hand in her black hair and another rubbing her eyes, going angrily one side of the carriage to the other, clearly distressed by some sort problem that Tom was sure he would have to solve for her. Well, _maybe _not solve for her, but he would certainly have to hear about it for weeks, not just when she told _him_ but also when she told other people – the _joys_ of being tied to the hip.

“Barty rigged the Games, three years ago. For Rowena’s girl.” Bellatrix said, her eyes set with determination, “How did he do it?”

Tom turned to look at her, calculating. The kids from Twelve hadn’t been that impressive for her to want them to win, therefore he counted them out. So who could have gotten her attention? Tom wasn’t sure, they hadn’t watched the recaps together, she had been too busy speaking on the phone with their stylist, and he was too busy stewing in Molly Weasley’s choice of words.

Whoever it had been, it prickled his skin. It wasn’t jealousy. It _wasn’t_, he insisted to himself. It was the lack of answers, he was sure. He decided to answer her question and try to manoeuvre her to tell him.

“The **_Appointments_**.” He answered matter of fact.

Bellatrix snorted, crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. The picture of bratty kid about to have a temper tantrum. Terrific, just what he needed.

“I _know _that, Tom!” She snarled, visibly angry, and he recalculated everything. This was already personal; this was already someone she knew.

She was turning to leave, spitting mad at him, but he grabbed her elbow and pulled to him, roughly, causing her to crash against his chest. He held on tightly to her, keeping her close while she struggled to get away. He was stronger than her, yes, and while he knew that she could _maybe _wrestle herself out of his arms – a well placed knee, would do the trick, honestly – but she seemed too mad, too angry to try and hurt him

“First, tell me why.” He demanded, his nose brushing her hers such was the urgency of his pull. In retrospect, it was a mistake coming at her like that.

She laughed, well, cackled, really, madly in his face, “Forget it!” She shouted, her eyes beginning to water with furious tears. And then she smirked, vicious and spiteful, “I’ll just ask _Barty_!”

Suddenly a hundred voices ran in his ears. From the cry Hagrid gave as he died, to his announcement as the winner, the way Abraxas spoke to him, that man at the club, Weasley and almost every other person that had ever doubted him.

_‘And the last Quarter Quell Tribute, Tom Riddle!’_

_‘Ahhh! No!’_

_‘I’ll just ask _ **Barty** _…’_

_‘Even that escort wants away from _ **you** _…’_

_‘The Winner of the 50th Hunger Games, Tom Riddle…’_

_‘Bring _ **one** _ home…’_

_‘You’ll never be like _ **us** _…’_

_‘Winner of the-…’_

_‘Ask _ **Barty** _…’_

_‘Like _ **us** _…’_

_‘Tom **Riddle**’_

_‘Away from _ **you** _.’_

_‘ **One**…’_

_‘ **Barty** …"_

_ **"Riddle"** _

_“**Us**…”_

_‘ **You** …”_

It was like a flip had been switched and it sprung him into action.

He growled and quite impulsively his hands flew to her throat and _squeezed_, his other arm coming forward to press against her mouth to stop her form breathing. He wasn’t seeing right anymore, red blurring his vision, instinct overtaking him. The only thing he knew was that something was threatening him; threatening him with a younger, stronger _Victor, _someone who was in the Arena and could kill him, someone better than him, someone to take away what was h-…

His thoughts were derailed when an acute pain erupted from his arm. He let whatever was hanging in his hands and fell to his knees, clutching the bleeding arm. He looked at the wound, bloodied and was barely able to make up an indentation from where the blood poured. Small strong little holes, a little ripped… Teeth? Animal teeth? No. No. He took a deep breath. That didn’t make sense. He was on the train… He could feel the vibrations under him.

Coughing pulled him out of his stupor, he lifted his head from his arm and saw a woman – Bellatrix, his brain supplied as it reasserted itself – on her knees, one hand supporting herself against the leg of a nearby table and another clutching her rapidly darkening throat. Someone had hurt her? His dazed mind couldn’t keep up, too startled by the pain in his arm and his rage as he… Rage? Why was he so angry? Memory evaded him as the pain in his arm called to him.

He took a glance away from Bellatrix to his still bleeding arm wondering exactly why his arm was riddled with teeth marks, it couldn’t be an **_Appointment _**as sometimes they got violent and left marks - he was on the train, _still_ on the train. His gaze shifted again to Bellatrix to see if she could remember why his arms was like that, but as he did so, he noticed her mouth; red, with blood.

And the dots connected.

“You’re mad!” He screamed.

Bellatrix breathed hard, panting from the lack of air, “You were _strangling _me!”

Yes, he had done that, hadn’t he?

He breathed heavily, leaned back against the back of the couch and ran his hands through his hair. He muttered, brokenly, _“I’m_ mad.”

“A little.” Bellatrix voice was hoarse, and she was coughing a little as her damaged throat struggled to speak, “But I forgive you.” He glared at her, and she smirked, “Okay, fine, I might like that you’re a little insane sometimes, it makes for a raunchy time in the bedroom.” He glared harder and she now, she smiled, sincerely and apologetically, “And I _might_ have purposefully provoked you.”

He snorted, “_Might_, she says.”

Truth be told he _was _a little disturbed, he had just _lost it, _completely, and without much pushing. He loathed to admit it, but what Weasley had said burrowed in his mind and refused to leave. His constant failures, even when carefully crafted, left a bitter taste in his mouth; he hated losing and wasn’t that what he had been doing the past twenty-years? He could start trying but he knew that the likelihood of winning, even if he gave it his all, was by no means assured, the Tributes - _the kids_, he reminded himself, _they were kids, **I **was a **kid** – _had to do the hard work; they had to be likable, and that, he could not control.

He was about to open his mouth to say something, _anything, _that might explain why he’d done what he’d done when Bellatrix simply rose. Her grey-nearly-white eyes set to him, but they were soft and malleable and not-pitying as he might have guessed they might be. He waited for her to speak.

“About the Games… Can it wait? Until we’re in the Capitol, after the Parade? I just- I need a little time to process everything.” She wrangled her hands, looking uncertain, “If I delay it can I still make sure-,”

“Yes.” He interrupted, glad that she wanted to leave it alone for now.

“Okay, good.” She rasped out, her voice rough and darkening with each word she spoke. Bellatrix passed by him, touching his shoulder slightly, “We’re okay?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking that?” He asked, still sitting on the floor, his knees to his chest, “After all, I just choked you.”

Bellatrix merely caressed his nape and ran her hands through his hair, she leaned in and he almost thought she was about to kiss his forehead, but she simply took her hand out of his hair and caressed his cheek one last time. She said nothing else as she left him in the train car by himself.

* * *

The Parade had been a disaster, as it was most years, but Tom could hardly care. His thoughts warred for attention, split between his loss of control and whatever the hell was going with Bellatrix and her desire to fix the Games to the advantage of whatever Tribute she wanted to win.

For once, Tom didn’t mingle – not with Antonin, Amelia or even Barty, earning him some confused looks – and right after the Parade ended rapidly made his way to the elevator leaving Twelve’s tributes and Bellatrix to catch up. He had even suffered through dinner and waited for the Tributes to go to bed before approaching Bellatrix, who was waiting for him in the living room, presumably ready for the conversation they were about to have.

“So, who do you want to win?” He asked casually as he took out one of his cigarettes and twirled it in his hand before lighting it.

Bellatrix wrangled her hands and walked back-and-forth, clearly distressed by the whole thing. She turned to look at him, her gaze telling him that whoever it was she wanted to win had absolutely no chance. She was looking for a miracle.

“Well, go on. If we’re doing this then we need to hurry.”

“You told me we had time!” She shouted at him suddenly. She was scared, panicked, but that wasn’t enough reason for him to let that slide.

“We do.” He answered just as forcefully, though more quiet than she could probably ever manage, “But we need to prep sponsors if the Tribute is well, a disaster.” The look on her face told him that the Tribute was indeed a disaster, “So, go on. Lay it on me.”

He watched Bellatrix bite her tongue, clearly unwilling to even think about this. This was so very personal for her, maybe his guess about this being her cousin’s lovechild wasn’t that off mark. She exhaled loudly, and then, _finally _said the name of the person she wanted to safe.

“Nymphadora Tonks. District Four.” She spoke, defeatedly as her head fell to her hands.

He had suspected a Black, but maybe whoever the mother of the kid had been was smart enough to change the name?

“Why her?” He asked, finally, unable to hold back his curiosity.

Bellatrix paused and ran her eyes from the top of his head to his feet, not in obvious lust as was costume, but as if appraising him for something - some _sentiment_ – that he was sure he was lacking. Her eyes looked downcast when she finally turned from him, clearly having not found what she was looking and he watched her ran her hand through her hair, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his throat.

“Tell me,” she said, finally, her tone defeated for some reason he could not guess at, “why do think I do this job?”

He was genuinely confused and mildly angry at the question, he had stopped asking himself why she was doing this job long ago having always assumed that Antonin’s first guess was right; that this was a job to entertain her and, somehow worst of all, temporary. Despite the anger, he _had_ made his peace long ago, content in enjoying it while it lasted.

“I always assumed you’re here because you’re bored with your little privileged life and want a little adventure before marrying off to whatever high-class man you’re promised to.”

The nonchalant tone was farce, a farce that Bellatrix – in her right mind – would understand. In her _right_ mind. When Bellatrix laughed, bitterly, tears in her eyes that she stubbornly refused to let fall, Tom shouldn’t have been surprised but he was. The urge to recoil at her vitriol rose within him but he would not give her the satisfaction.

“That’s what you think? You think I _want _this job? Always in the spotlight, always a mistake away from killing my entire family? A foot out of line and I’ll find myself _hanging_ in a cell? An _accident_ that kills my friends or my family? Do you think I want to _live _like this?”

Tom rolled his eyes and supressed a snort though he felt his lips twitching trying to show his discontent, “Some would also mention the ‘sending kids to death’ part.”

“Oh, please,” she said waving away that he had even brought it up, “I can’t do anything about that. If it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else.”

She did have a point there.

“So, tell me _why_?”

No where left for her to run. A fact that she seemed aware of if her deflated shoulders, moulded by the tight red outfit, were anything to go by.

“Remember when I told you I threw a party for that Victor I had bet on?” He nodded, vaguely aware of it but more unsure as to why she was bringing that up, “That party took place in District Four. I was sixteen and finally allowed to drink, so we rented a cabin in the sunshine District. It was a fun time, drinks all around, the boys in the District were cute.” she seemed to be detouring purposefully, unwilling to get to the matter at hand, “Well, anyway… When we came back, I found out that a friend had gotten pregnant from a boy there.” She scoffed at her own words, “No, not a _friend_. Always hated that lie.” She steeled herself, “It was my _sister_.”

He sputtered out a surprised, “Narcissa?”

Her next words seemed like were wrenched out of her soul, the way her head fell as if memories where threatening to overtaking her, the way her eyes drifted away from his to hide a shame that Tom couldn’t even try to venture a guess although he knew that he was seconds away from answers. And when she rose her head again, the tears had made a trek down her face. A foreign feeling told him to reach out and wipe them away, but he refrained, there were more important things to do right now.

“No.” Tom watched unable to comprehend that she had kept this secret, “My other sister... Andromeda.” The name looked painful to say as Bellatrix face contorted in pain.

“Oh.” Eloquence was out of window in the face of that. He cleared his throat and tried to move the story along, “Older, then?”

Bellatrix shook her head, reeling, “No. Younger.” Tears sprung in her eyes again, “She was fifteen.” 

Well, shit.

“What happened next?” He coaxed out of her, carefully.

“We tried to warn her.” Bellatrix defended, and started pacing again, “We tried telling her what they did to Capitols who got too close to District people! But she didn’t listen.” Bellatrix was talking fast, almost spiralling out of control, “We couldn’t do anything, she just-she just_ ran away_!” She was breathing heavily, and Tom was torn between his curiosity and Bellatrix’ rapidly fading control.

“What else?” He demanded, trying make her focus on him.

“We thought she’d never make it. We thought she’d give up as soon as she got to Four, if she even _got _to Four. But it didn’t happen.” Bellatrix was almost hysterical now, “She had her bloody brat and then _we _had to pay the price.” 

How ironic. The same reason his mother’s family had been disgraced was the same that had sent Bellatrix his way.

“So,_this_ is why you’re an escort?” Tom couldn’t help but ask, “It isn’t just to starve off boredom, you’re _atoning _for your sister,” Bellatrix’s silence told him more than any words she might utter, “and now her brat is joining the Games.” He chuckled and it then turned to a full-blown laugh, truly amused by her misery and lack of luck, “Poor little Blacks with so much and then a little girl comes along and ruins everything. How _cute_.”

He spat out, infuriated that this, _this_was what passed for misfortune in the Capitol. That all the family had to do to be back in full graces of the President was have a daughter work a little for the Games and all was forgiven. Hated it, because back in the District – back _home_, he meant – if you dishonoured the Capitol as Andromeda clearly had then the whole family would be executed. Hell, forget the Districts, like the _Gaunts_ had been executed. Clearly all you had to do was have a pretty face and everything would be forgiven. Despicable, vile, and utterly sickening.

“So now that your _niece_,” he stressed the word and was pleased to see her flinch, “is in the Games, now, you work. Good to know how you feel about us in the lower Districts.”

Her eyes flashed as if he’d insulted her. Her voice rang in his head as she yelled at him. The woman could not be accused of ever being subtle.

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit! You care as much for the children as I do. Which is _nothing_! You care nothing for them for the simple reason that you _want_to be the only Victor from your District. At least I care for someone other than myself.” He hid his flinch at that, it hurt to hear for some reason, “It’s my sister’s child, Tom. Despite everything that happened between us, I _need_ to do this. I _need _to at least, try.”

Well, when she put it like _that_.

He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. He should let her go to Barty and have _him_ selling Bellatrix out to whatever _‘clients’_ he deemed appropriate to let Bellatrix’ niece win.

But he couldn’t, he _wouldn’t_ let her go through this without him. She’d been _there_ for him, time and again, distracting him after a bad **_Appointment_**, a bad nightmare, a bad day. She was fond of him and didn’t care that he didn’t care for the Tributes. She gave him even more standing just by refusing to move her career along. He had s_trangled _her, and she had made a joke about it instead of reporting it.

He _owed_ her.

Still, he wanted to be as nonchalant as he could be. No use telling her that he thought he owed her.

“Finally.” He drawled, and picked a little lint off his trousers, feigning disinterest, “_now_we can work on getting your niece off those Games alive.”

She confused, eyes wide and mouth dropped open, “What?”

“You told me the truth; it begets a reward.” He spoke as if to a child.

“You’ll… help?”

“Oh, you’ll do most of the work, Bella, but I’m willing to give you some pointers.”

And so, it went. After digging around a little bit – and it really was just that, a little bit of digging, he was a popular Victor and had a huge portfolio to pick from and she was a famously beautiful woman – he managed to find a few former _‘clients’ _that were high enough to have some influence over the Head Gamemaker, he made some calls and scheduled a hotel.

A few minutes later Bellatrix was ready to leave, cold and austere under the white make-up, blue eyeliner, and the purple wig. She looked like a clown, really, compared to her natural beauty, but Tom didn’t want to think of her now, didn’t want to think of her as his Bellatrix but as Bellatrix, the escort.

He sat in the couch as he watched her leave, the glass of whiskey in his hand drowned in one go.

Now all was left was the waiting game.

* * *

As it was, Tom had to wait the rest of the afternoon as well as all night.

She came back to the penthouse, the next day, sun barely dawning, her face still set in determined stone even if with barely-perceptible blurred makeup, but she gave him a nod. It was done then; the Victor of the 70th Hunger Games was decided. Nymphadora Tonks could already start making space on her bedroom for the crown. Once again, the Games hadn’t even started yet, and they were already finished.

Tom offered Bellatrix a glass of whiskey, the golden liquid drowning three ice cubs and bubbling with rotten sweet flavor, which she took in one go. She sat in the sitting room’s couch and slouched, head falling to her hands. If in relief or shame, he didn’t know and didn’t dare ask. He merely took the empty glass from her hand and refilled it before handing it back to her.

The Tributes woke up and came out to the room, shocked to see Bellatrix in the same outfit as last night and a glass of whiskey in her hand at seven in the morning. Taking a look at them he was hit with fact that Molly Weasley had just lost another son. Poor Percy was as good as dead. Well, tough shit, Bellatrix ranked higher than Molly on a bad day.

After a little bit of quite coaxing, Tom roused Bellatrix from her stupor. With a weighty nod, Bellatrix went to her room and got ready for the day. They had children to prepare for death.

In the end it was almost ridiculously easy; the Arena was similar to Tom’s, a little lake and a mountain in the distance, the girl had hidden early in games and never left her cave as Tributes died. The bloodbath took ten, some others were killed by the vicious Arena where nothing was safe to eat, and the rest had fallen due to an avalanche that the girl, far away from the epicentre, survived.

It was the most boring Games the Capitol could remember in a long while.

After the trains were loaded with the Tributes bodies, paperwork done and everything that needed signed was dotted and crossed, the only thing left to do was attend the coronation. Tom watched the girl take the stage, the first good look he had at her; she trembling and dazed, not quite there-there and he knew right away that of ‘Victor’ she had nothing. She was _pretty_, he guessed. Nothing on Bellatrix, of course, he could barely even see the resemblance. Tall, skeletal-thin and curvy-less with dull brown hair framing her face; she and Bellatrix barely looked like the same species much less the same family. Thank the Gods, for small favours.

More than that, the final part of the Games had gone on so fast that the usual documentary with the family of the remaining 8 Tributes wasn’t even shot. How convenient then, that the _rebellion_ of the middle sister of the formerly famous Black Sisters wasn’t even shown in the Capitol. Whatever had happened, if it was by design of the President or by Bellatrix’ own insistence, the Black Family’s secret remained safe and there was no proof of Capitol resistance.

President Grindelwald came out, gave a thinly-veil speech about loyalty to the Capitol that he and Bellatrix could clearly see through – a warning for those who knew who Nymphadora was – and put the crown atop Nymphadora’s head full of dull brown hair. With the polite – but loud, if only by sheer number of people – applause, Bellatrix spoke quietly beside him while clapping, the sound of the demure cheering covering her words.

“My father died.”

“Yes, I know.”

“No, Tom. My father _died_.”

She spoke, slowly and deliberately, and he understood; Cygnus Black had been killed for his daughter’s defection and Bellatrix had stepped up and whored herself out – literally, now – so the rest of her family wouldn’t follow his fate. He had been wrong, it seemed that the Capitol didn’t treat any of its citizens any different, no matter who they were.

His mother’s family had died, but so had Bellatrix’.

The only difference is that the Blacks had had a daughter who cared enough to step up, had had a daughter clever enough to never doubt that everyone in their family would be exterminated by the Capitol for one member’s infraction. She had been willing to humble herself and her family for their survival. It made him sick; not only just that the Capitol thought it could do that to anyone, although it did leave an awful taste in his mouth that had never been there _quite like that_before, but also that Bellatrix had done that for her family. It made her sentimental, human, _weak_… It revealed a softness to be exploited by anyone and everyone.

And he didn’t like that, he reached the conclusion in the back of his mind as they mingled in the Games afterparty, a glass of champagne in his hand as one of his clients blabbered his ear off.

He didn’t like that she had weaknesses that could be easily exploited by anyone but himself. Because now he had to watch as one of the _‘clients’_ **_she_** had _entertained_ for the benefit of her treasonous sister decided to approach her in public with a drink to chatter her up, a hand firmly on her waist. An involuntary growl escaped his throat as the bastard’s hand moved from her waist to her ass.

She was _his_.

He choked on his drink as the epiphany hit him square in the face. She _was_his, wasn’t she? She _was, _he decided, and he didn’t want to share her. How ironic then that he had been the one to induct her into the_ **Appointments**_ part of the games. How ironic that he had been the one to sell her out to the highest bidder. How ironic that if he dwelled too much on that night he was sure it would drive him mad.

That year, for the first time in three, he went back to Twelve for the Winter. His little epiphany had left him with a lot to think about.

And none of it was good.


	5. The 71st Hunger Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom deals with the fallout of his realizations and Bellatrix's actions in the previous year come with steep consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a hot minute, sorry about that.  
Look, I don't know if you guys are aware of what has been happening with JK and her trans comments, but as it is, it has left me very uncomfortable (read: angry). I am not here to preach to anyone, but if you want, consider giving support to trans organizations or getting educated on the issue (websites like The Angels, Trans Media Watch, and various YouTubers like Contrapoints and Riley J. Dennis are very good).  
Anyway back to the fun.

To say that the rest of the year had been an utter disappointment was sort of like trying to compare District One with District Twelve, a completely useless endeavour. By the time the Reaping for the 71st Hunger Games had arrived Tom was more than ready to throw away the towel and go to the Capitol, even if it meant that he would have to consciously avoid Bellatrix and create a scandal.

However, as the date of Reaping got closer and closer Tom was starting to wonder if he'd return to District Twelve at the end of this year's massacre again. He was not looking forward to remaining in the Capitol. What could he possibly remain there for? To watch as children died for nothing, he could that from his home. If he played his cards well he could very well never leave his house again for the rest of his days, content in wallowing in his books.

He remembered the day he had arrived home from the Capitol, the train station full of people ready to receive the bodies of their children.

Against all odds, Molly Weasley had survived whatever punishment the Peacekeepers had dealt at her last year. Tom had been surprised to see her standing with the crowd to receive the bodies of last year’s fallen kids, she was irrevocably changed — having lost much of her weight, and a pair of hunted eyes that had seen the worst of humanity — but she was standing there to welcome home the body of her son. Tom, for the first time, had arrived on the train with the bodies and didn’t know what to expect of the response of the District.

Of all people, Molly had solved that problem for him.

While the Peacekeepers unloaded the coffins, the emancipated woman had bypassed the Peacekeepers and made his way to him, Tom was already to poise himself to defend whatever incoming attack that the woman wished to level at when she simply reached out and hugged him. He must have stood there like an idiot, with Molly Weasley gripping him by his waist while hiding her head - hiding her tears most likely - in his chest.

Then, a quiet almost imperceptible, “I am sorry.” made it’s way past her lips.

Tom remembered contemplating what exactly she was apologizing for while he felt her swallow heavily, her head still against his chest. He remembered swallowing an awkward huff and nodding his head as he received the strange apology, and disentangled himself from her while the people in the station made room for him to pass. A procession of sorts that hadn’t been there even when he came back from his games.

What on earth was happening?

He had walked to his house, and behind him was Molly who, after having passed Fred’s body off to a nearby friend, had strangely accompanied him.

“We know,” Molly had said shuddering and trembling while he stood quietly smoking a cigarette against his house, “We know what happens when you disobey the Capitol.”

Tom remembered bitterly snorting, “And you didn’t before?”

“We didn’t know everything.”

And that had been that. A squeeze in his bicep and she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts and wondering if anything at all would change. Tom couldn’t say that he hated the way they had looked at him. Pity had certainly been there, and he could well live without that, but he could now see the Hero-worship that seemed to follow the other Victors’ in the eyes of his fellow District. That was something that, if needed, he could use.

Almost a year had passed since he had come back from the Games where Bellatrix’s niece had won. That year, probably due to the mental instability he had seen in the girl even as the crown was put on her head, the Victory Tour didn’t happen and instead, Barty had made his way through the country in Nymphadora’s stead. Tom remembered having Barty falling apart yet again, this time cursing out Nymphadora who had so utterly returned the spotlight back to him.

There had barely been time to comfort the boy, for the next hour he was already leaving for District Eleven to make his way to the Capitol, all the while lamenting the amount of Appointments he had in store. Bellatrix’s decision to save her niece truly was shaping up to be just an impeccable display of judgement.

Besides Barty, the year had been uneventful. He maintained his distance from the District, but every time he came out there seemed to be something akin to respect in their eyes, and in the way the nodded at him, Molly had quickly turned the tide of the District in his favour for some reason. Then, almost out of nowhere, the day of the Reaping had arrived and for the first time in a year, Tom would see Bellatrix again.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to open the door and find her there, dressed in the latest ridiculous Capitol fashion, a eerie simile of the first time they met. The universe didn’t follow narrative plots, but he wondered if for him alone the universe had made an exception. To be standing here, almost in the exact same position as new information came to light that changed everything that had started that day, seven years ago.

An uncomfortable silence manifested itself between them, the likes of which hadn't really existed since that first year.

"So," Bellatrix broke the silence with an awkward cough, "anything...happen?"

How incredibly... dull. Tom didn't remember a time where they had been this awkward.

"The Wilson’s house burned down."

A frown made its way to her face before she smoothed it over, and Tom realized that she didn't understand the significance of this particular incident, one that in the Capitol would pass as an unfortunate accident and prompt whatever family to simply buy a new house while here in Twelve, it was a catastrophe.

The house on fire had derailed the whole District for a couple of months, considering that the family that lived there was often the one who went to the Woods and brought back the meat that would inject Twelve's crackling economy. Not to mention that the Wilsons lived near the mines and the fire had caused the main work source to be closed for a few weeks to stop another catastrophe from happening. That certainly hadn't made things easier.

A riot had been in the making, Tom was sure, but then came a new captain for the Peacekeeper force and things got really ugly, really fast. Floggings and executions, a crackdown on the Hob which made the people even more starved and weak. It had been a massacre the likes of which hadn't been seen since his victory, it had almost been a culling. Tom had gritted his teeth and shut himself in his house, making sure to hide his more valuable — forbidden — books and trying to shut out the desperate cries in the street.

Bellatrix would never understand it, would never really know the struggle it was just to survive in this damned District, hell, in any part of this damned World that wasn't the Capitol. Even District One and Two, despite being the Capitol's darlings, had these problems. Bellatrix, despite her little sob story, would always be of the same cloth as those that cheered the massacre of children. And Tom, while he had enjoyed the applause and the reverence that came with the win couldn’t say that the Games and its corruption didn’t sicken him more and more each year.

“I see.” Bellatrix had muttered.

No, she didn’t. And Tom wasn’t sure why that made him so damned angry.

They made their way to the square where the Reaping would always take place and watched the same old videos, the same old propaganda, the same old everything. He kept his mouth shut even as he eagerly wanted to snarl at the screen.

Tom watched once again as Bellatrix took out another name and said it out loud, and this time he full on groaned. Fred Weasley, one of Molly’s sons. Again. Gods, even he was getting tired of seeing red-headed children die, the Capitol was bound to be bored to tears as well. He wondered if he could spin this in any positive away. Gods, what were the fucking odds? May the odds be ever in your favour, indeed. What a fucking clusterfuck.

They went inside the building for the families to say their goodbyes, Molly Weasley was stoic, but he could see she was almost crumbling. Normally, Bellatrix would meet him up here while they waited from them to be done. But he hadn’t waited for her. And she hadn’t come. Maybe this was the end, maybe his revelation had ruined them, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Perhaps because, simply there was nothing left to fix. When they got out of the car and into the station, Bellatrix, for once in this whole bizarre day seemed to be of the same mind.

“Is it over, then?”

“What are you talking about?”

"I see it in your eyes, it's like a bull before a fight." She said, mouth down turning with a grimace she would never be able to hide. She then gestured at the space between the two of them with a sad smile, "This is just another house on fire, only catastrophe and devastation in its wake. How incredibly masochist of us both."

Tom said nothing and just watched her go enter the train as the schism between grew with each step she took.

* * *

The train ride and the subsequent spectacle of the parade had been like pulling teeth, a mildly painful situation which had only gotten worse the more time they spent together. Barty, Amelia and Anthony had caught on, hell, Tom was pretty sure even the damned reporters had caught on. The tension between them was almost thick enough to be cut with a knife and Tom wasn't sure he could breach it, wasn't sure he even wanted to.

At least the kids this year were alright, Tom supposed, they weren't overly hopeful which was always easier to deal with than the ones who came along with false hope, but they didn't want to give up. The Thomas girl was the daughter of a miner and had been in the mines for all of three years which gave her a bit of an edge but she was as dull as dishwater. The Weasley kid, though, the twin and now the oldest son of the Weasley brood, was a bit of prankster and possessed enough charm to be able to maybe impress the Capitols. It was better than Tom had gotten in a long time, now to see if he had physical prowess.

It took him two days to know that he’d sent them into the Arena as nothing more than cannon fodder. The Weasley kid did manage to attract some attention, especially after Bellatrix took over this year’s stylist and put the children in decent enough clothes. But it — they, the children — was doomed anyway.

It took 15 minutes for both Ruth Thomas and Fred Weasley to die in the Bloodbath. Neither he nor Bellatrix was terribly surprised. Tom was surprised, however, when, after a few moments of silence, she got up and made to walk out of the penthouse.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

And that was that.

Okay, then.

He considered going out, but most of his group still had tributes in the Games, so he stayed in the penthouse and simply watched the massacre on happening a few miles away. It took hours, but eventually when the Tributes went to sleep so did he. Tom never heard Bellatrix come back.

"Where were you?" He asked the next morning, unable to contain himself.

"Out."

Well, then.

He was about to snarl at her when the news on TV passed to the gossip section and there he saw where she had been, in the arms of some man that the news was quick and eager to identify as Rodolphus, the new Gamemaker on the job. The news seemed pleased by such a promising match. Tom looked at Bellatrix and she had the decency to look ashamed but not much else.

He snorted and left the penthouse after slamming the door behind him. When he returned she had left the penthouse again, and once again, he did not see her until the next morning. This time, the news was almost greedily reporting that the man on Bellatrix's arm was not Rodolphus Lestrange but another man completely. This time, Tom didn't even bother to look at her, and merely ate his breakfast in silence. Bellatrix didn't bother him either, electing to take an aspirin and sleep until nightfall where she, presumably, would repeat the whole thing again.

The days passed much the same. Bellatrix leaving to go meet whatever man she was seeing at the moment and Tom either meeting with Barty, Amelia and Antonin - all the while ignoring the looks of pity in their eyes - or, more often, just relaxing at the penthouse. Then, one day, just as the Games were coming to an end, she came home early, almost limping with a bruised lip and squinty, drunk eyes.

Tom turned to look at her, the silence filling the air where playful — if somewhat cruel — banter would usually take place. He took in the look in her uncanny grey-nearly-white eyes. Lust, anger, sorrow and something Tom didn’t want to decipher. He barely had to twitch towards her to send her in motion.

She strode towards him and pushed him against a nearby painting of whatever the hell passed as fashionable that year. His back hit the frame and the glass embedded in his skin as her lips slammed against his. She smelled of whiskey and sex. He almost pushed her away, part of him didn’t want to be inside of her after a Capitol had fucked her. And yet, something stirred inside of him. He wanted to fuck whoever it had been out of her, he wanted to be the only one she thought of.

He grabbed her head and pulled to him, kissing her pale neck until it bruised under the force of his kisses. Bellatrix quickly caught on and quickly manoeuvred him to his bedroom, all the while rapidly taking off his clothes. Tom was already naked by the time Bellatrix pushed him to the bed. Tom could only watch as Bellatrix got rid of her clothes and groan loudly as she climbed the bed to mount him with one fell swoop. If she looked pained as she took him in, she didn’t mention it and he didn’t care to either. He wanted to erase her mind of whoever it had been she’d been seeing.

He positioned himself to start thrusting up into her, but Bellatrix looked down at him from on top of his lap. Her eyes silently begged him to let her steer, to let her have some semblance of control. Whatever had happened at her date, it had made her seek him out and beg to lead; whoever that date had been, their days were numbered. As it was, he let her take control, let her set the pace and drive the show. She rode him hard, like a prized bull. Her hips moving up and down with such a force that Tom was sure his hips were going to be bruised well-before she was done with him. It had been so long since they’d been together that they didn’t have hope to last long. Soon enough, they were both finished, a sheer layer of sweat covering their bodies as they laid, each on their side of the bed.

Harsh breathing was the only sound in the bedroom until Tom opened his side table and lit a cigarette. The sharp inhale and exhale of Tom’s smoking soon superseded everything. Until it didn’t.

“We hadn’t done that since last year.” She commented quietly beside him.

Tom took a drag of his cigarette, “Yes, well…” he trailed off, he didn’t know what to say.

More than that, he didn’t know what she was thinking as he was always able to know before. They were out of sync. Letting the phrase hang in the air would give Bellatrix the chance to fill it on her own and give him a glimpse of what was going on in her mind.

Making sure to leave as much space between them as he could, he turned his head to look at her. He suddenly wished he hadn’t. In the darkness of the room he could see trails of tears falling silently off Bellatrix’ eyes, the lights of the parties outside giving him enough to, unfortunately, see that. He didn’t fully turn, and he didn’t wipe her tears away, it would have ruined his purpose of getting into her mind. So, he let her cry, silently for a while. He watched her swallow the lump in her throat as she tried controlling her voice enough to speak, she cleared her throat with a cough and asked him the question that would give him insight into her mind.

“Is it because I whored myself out last year?”

Well, shit, you could have knocked him over with a feather.

Her voice had been strong and steady, and had he not seen it he would have never known that she had been crying. And, yet the content was like sucker punch to his stomach. She had been this distant, this out of sorts because she thought he had a problem with the way she had secured her niece’s victory. And while, yes, he had a problem with her selling herself out for a girl who would have never won without interference, it wasn’t because she had sold herself out for a woman who probably did not deserve such a thing. It was the revelation that he wanted her for himself and didn’t want to share. He had never had that with any other woman.

“I-No.” he stammered, still miffed by her question, “I mean, it’s not not because of that.”

Bellatrix huffed a chuckle. It was a sad, miserable sound. She didn’t believe him, and he wasn’t exactly putting on a great rebuttal. He sighed and dragged himself closer to her, she was about to turn her head from him when he gently grabbed her chin and made sure she was looking at him when he spoke.

“I-,” He sighed, “Bella, of course, it isn’t because of what you did last year. I have some flaws, but being a hypocrite is not one of them.” He reflected, then added with a shrug, “Well, not about this, anyway.”

Bellatrix shook her head and scoffed, “It’s different. You don’t have a choice. I did.”

“No, you didn’t.” Even in the darkness, her glare didn’t diminish in intensity and, after letting out an amused chuckle, he insisted, “You didn’t. If you hadn’t done what you did, you wouldn’t be Bellatrix.”

She also chuckled, hers a viciously bitter sound, “How I wish I could be anyone else, then.”

“Welcome to our world.” At her quizzical look, he elaborated, “Everyone in the Districts wants to be someone else at some point, if not every point, in their lives, Bella.”

Bellatrix quieted at that, mulling over what he said.

“It’s terrible.” She said, finally, quietly, whispering, “What I’m feeling about wanting to be anyone else, wishing that I had had other choices… Wishing that the world we live in was-” she managed to cut herself off before she finished the sentence, “Well, it’s plenty good as it is.” She finished with a fake laugh.

The ignoble truth about the world they were living in; no one knew who was listening. The bedrooms were bugged, everyone knew that. Their conversation until that point had been pretty tame, but then and there Bellatrix could have step over a line.

“Yes. It is.” He agreed through gritted teeth and turned his head from her ready to finish the conversation and go to sleep, “Anyway, whatever you did, I’m fine with it. I have no say, after all-…”

Bellatrix grabbed his head and forced him to look at her, in a simile of what he had done to her a few minutes ago. She looked at him, and in her eyes, he saw fondness, trust, and something else he wasn’t ready to uncover. He tried turning away from her, but she didn’t let him and merely looked at him some more. She leaned in; her mouth so close to his that if she spoke their lips would brush. A tension built between them and Tom closed his eyes in anticipation of the kiss that was sure to come. He gulped loudly and trembled when still after a few seconds she still hadn’t closed the distance.

“Bella…” He was right, every movement of his mouth made their lips brush softly, “What…”

She finally closed the distance; her lips collapsed into his caressing and stroking. Something was different about this kiss, he thought as his hand knotted in her hair and hers grabbed the back of his neck pulling him closer, this kiss felt more passionate, more real, more… Just more, the kiss felt more. With a swipe of his tongue, she let him inside with a moan and grabbed him more tightly.

There, in that little room overlooking the terrible city they lived in, they seemed to find each other again, seemed to slide right back to being in sync again. No other kiss he had ever - either with her or anyone else - had felt like this. This completing, this sure, this enduring. It was a kiss that preceded nothing, that led to nothing, that wanted for nothing. It was a good kiss that was just that and yet, something so much more. Something he couldn’t give a name to, something he’d never felt before. With the need for air becoming urgent, he separated from her lips with a whine, they panted hard as their noses still brushed together.

Her hand caressing his nape she whispered, “You do.” She panted beneath him, “You do have a say and you know it.”

He nodded, but he didn’t want to dwell much on it anymore. This was far too intimate, far too complicated for the relative easy tension-reliever it had started has. But Tom couldn't find fault in Bellatrix's reasoning. This was where they were now and Tom wasn't sure he would be able to step out of this mess. Not without burning every bridge, not without setting himself free.

Once, he had clawed and killed for the sliver of freedom he now enjoyed. For the first time in his life, he wasn't sure he needed to be free.

Hugging her close to him for a second too long, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the lull of the city lights and breathing and sailed into an easy sleep.

* * *

Thankfully for both Tom and Bellatrix, who both seemed hesitant to speak of the night before, the next morning brought the end of the Games. Tom watched the ending alone, in the penthouse living room, as Bellatrix left in a hurry a few moments before the end after having received some sort of bad news. She hadn’t told him anything and he hadn’t pressed, but the look in her eyes had told him as such.

Instead of focusing on the mystery of Bellatrix, Tom had turned his full attention to the television and the girl that had won this year because, well, he hadn’t been expecting her, at all.

Pansy Parkinson, District Eight, had played the naïve and innocent card for all it was worth, but in the end, she had slaughtered everyone that stood in her way. It was magnificent, if slightly too gory for him; Bellatrix had loved the girl though, his escort despite understanding the injustices of the Games — and everything that came with winning — was still a Capitol, and the bloodier the Games, the better. Barty had also bet on the Parkinson girl to win. Tom was sure that next year the rather unstable girl would join their little group of ragtag misfits.

He got up from the couch and got ready to go down to the Fourth Floor where Barty would need him to fill out some of the paperwork to transport the Tributes back home. This was the first time Barty was the Head Mentor, and his escort was about as useful as a rock and Nymphadora couldn’t help him even if she had somehow grown a brain in the last week, so Tom had volunteered in exchange for a good bottle of whiskey he was planning on saving for a good occasion.

He took one last look at the penthouse, making sure everything was in place. Once he found everything to his liking, he wondered if he should leave a note for Bellatrix in case she came back to the penthouse while he was gone. In the end, he decided against that, they weren’t that kind of people.

Entering the elevator, he pressed the number for the Fourth Floor and casually walked out when it dinged and the doors opened. A strange, eerie silence seemed to be instilled on the very stones of the floor. Tense, he quietly passed the whole floor — not counting the bedrooms — without being noticed, quickly realizing that no one was home. Not surprising, after all, District Four was a Career District and it was Day 12 of the Hunger Games and they had still been in the Games until Parkinson had finished off the rest 15 minutes ago. District Twelve hadn’t been so lucky, having lost both their Tributes minutes into the Bloodbath.

Still, despite the lack of people, the same eerie silence remained. Something was amiss, Tom’s hairs at the back of his neck rose and his pale skin sprouted to goosebumps. Tensing and reading his muscles for a moment, Tom tried to take in the whole area. The layout was similar to the Twelve’s floor, with less windows and without the access to the roof, but it all seemed to be relatively in order. Just as Tom was about to rack it up to his paranoid brain, a far too familiar smell hit his nose.

A sickly dry smell, with metallic undertones that he would never forget.

Blood.

It was coming from the bedroom. Not Barty’s coincidentally. Of course not, not with his luck.

He cautiously opened the door and the familiar metallic scent of blood hit his nose even harder as he entered the bedroom. He couldn’t see very well; the blinds were closed and there was only a small light coming from the adjacent bathroom. He steeled himself before he opened the door.

He wished he could say that the sight that greeted him surprised him but, in the back of his mind, he had been waiting for this moment.

Sighing heavily, he leaned against the door frame and took in the sight of Bellatrix, calm and without a scratch on her, sitting on the floor leaning against the red-tainted blue cabinet, the wire that had given shape to her now-formless-skirt clutched in her bloodied hands. Nymphadora’s body was lying in a pool of blood while her severed head laid but a few inches away from Bellatrix’s feet.

No others signs of a struggle were present in the otherwise pristine bathroom and if Bellatrix had been able to kill her niece so easily, it only confirmed what he had known last year; the girl, Nymphadora, was no survivor and wouldn’t have been able to win the Games without them rigging every possible outcome for her. He exhaled, at least, Bellatrix was alive. He decided that he was going to play nonchalant, it seemed the safest bet, after all, the woman was still holding on to her improvised weapon.

“Can I know what prompted this particular display of your temper?”

“Andromeda is dead.”

The empty whisper somehow echoed in the blood soiled bathroom. Tom looked on at Bellatrix sitting in the pool of her niece’s rapidly cooling blood, her stickily red hands still clenching the improvised garotte wire she had used to decapitate Nymphadora and he couldn’t help but grimace. The whole thing was a bloody disaster, pun fucking intended, and there would be hell to pay.

He sighed, rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside her, blood soaking his expensive trousers. She looked at him, her grey-nearly-white eyes looked confused - lost \- as if she wasn’t there any more. He could only hope it was an effect of her uncanny eyes and not an indication of her mental state. Nevertheless, he knelt and with a deft hand wrangled the wire out of her hands, and then more carefully than he thought himself capable of, he sneaked his arms under her knees and around her waist, his forearms becoming coated with vivid scarlet blood as he lifted her off the pool around her and the body. She clung to him as soon as she realized what he was doing.

Tom entered the elevator with her still in his arms, making sure to leave as little blood behind as possible although Tom was sure that the Peacekeepers and someone higher up was on their way to clean up the mess. At least Barty would be happier with the girl gone.

He got out of the elevator and into their floor, carrying her to the kitchen and sitting her in the counter. He searched the cabinet for the medical kit they kept in every room in the penthouse and precoded to clean her blood-stained hands with alcohol. He wasn’t surprised that she winced, the wire must have also cut her hand somewhat. Not too carefully, he pressed the cotton into her wounds, making her hiss. But she said nothing more.

“Why kill Nymphadora?”

He barely registered when she glared.

“Are you going to make me say it again?”

“Andromeda is dead, yes, I know. But why?”

Bellatrix suddenly laughed, a bitter hollow sound, “The Appointments, what else? Turns out someone will want anyone as long as it brings them prestige,” Bellatrix shook her head, her black hair also sticky with blood flying awkwardly around her, “Whored myself out for that girl only for her to turn out to be a righteous basket case with principles and get my sister killed.”

It was incredibly predictable, to be frank, but he doubted Bellatrix needed to hear that right now. He’d tell her in a couple of hours when most of her rage would hopefully have passed and she wouldn’t try to kill him. Not that she could, obviously, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.

He was about to open his mouth when the sound of an approaching helicopter cut off his words. Both he and Bellatrix exchanged looks, they knew that this was where the punishment for her actions would be dolled out. A higher up from the Government was sure to make their appearance. Tom watched Bellatrix leap off the counter and land carefully on her feet, straightening herself to the height of decorum as if she wasn’t covered in her niece’s blood.

He and Bellatrix walked to the living room waiting for all the Peacekeepers to make their sweeps and position themselves in formation. Tom watched as three men he recognized as Gamemakers — Snape, Rodolphus, Crabbe — descended the helicopter’s stairs to walk inside. They stood to the side, lapdogs waiting for their master to arrive and set Bellatrix straight, Rodolphus’ eyes barely left Bellatrix a love-struck expression on his face despite the blood, Crabbe looked ready to throw up at the sight of blood and Severus Snape — a junior Gamemaker with a bright future, apparently — hid his curiosity behind a mask of stoicism.

Then, finally, a fourth figure emerged from the helicopter, only once it shut down of course, Tom watched — heart in his throat — as a cane first appeared on the stairs, and then a finely pressed suit that seemed as black as the coal they dug from Twelve’s mines. His features were harsh under the blinding summer sun, sculpted as finely as Tom’s and Bellatrix’ if not more artificially so, and then finally, Tom saw the impeccable long white hair that no one would ever dare to try and emulate.

He knew him at once.

President Grindelwald.

Fuck.

Tom resisted the urge to straighten himself in his presence and opted for a more casual form. Bellatrix, however, was barely able to hide the shudder that spread through her body.

“I have to say, Miss Black,” the voice, strong yet airy, seemed to echo inside the ostentatiously filled room, grime seemed to be to inherit in his voice, a sludge he seemed unable to rid himself of, “that it was quite the show. A breathtaking display of temper. To die for, really.”

It would be funny if part of Tom wasn’t wondering if both of them would be dead by the end of this conversation. Sweeping the room Tom couldn’t really see any visible or viable escape routes. His muscles, tense since he had found Bellatrix, begged for mercy, but he couldn’t bring himself to relax. Not when the hazel eyes of Grindelwald stared with such intensity at them. It was only made worse when his foul mouth broke into a smile.

“Well, thankfully, Miss Tonks was not a well-liked Victor.” Grindelwald drawled, his hazel eyes moving calmly between him and Bellatrix, “But, my dear, you realize that there are consequences to your actions and some compensation to the Capitol must be made.”

Tom watched Gamemaker Snape drift his small dark eyes towards Bellatrix, a hint of something in his gaze that Tom wasn’t sure he liked. He didn’t have time to dwell on it as Grindelwald spoke once more.

“First, I’m afraid you’ll need to busy yourself with another man, my dear. Oh, you may carry on your little affair in private, I care not, but there will be no talk of an affair between the two of you, am I clear, Miss Black?”

So, he did know about their affair. Not that shocking in the grand scheme of things, they had not been subtle. Mainly because there was nothing prohibiting an affair between a Victor and an escort, as long as there was no confirmation, no children and no rings were exchanged, all was fair. Hell, it brought views to the Games and good publicity for Capitol-District relation. So, Tom doubted he was in danger even if their freedom was.

“And I’m afraid that you must start trying to do your jobs. I’m sure neither of you particularly care for your Tributes nor do I care if your little backward District wins again, but you must, at least, give the appearance that you do. Something that has been missing for the past years, my dears.”

He was talking to Tom too now, and the Victor had to bite his tongue to not tell the President of Panem with a Peacekeeper squadron behind his back that he shouldn’t dare to call him ‘dear’. Still, what he was saying wasn’t exactly ideal, nickname or not. Tom liked being the sole winner of District Twelve, especially after having won a Quell with double the Tributes. It was a point of pride and prestige he didn’t want to give up.

Beyond that, he did not want to try, he did not like failing, and he would fail if he tried, District Twelve wouldn’t win for anything less than a miracle. And he didn’t care. He didn’t. He really didn’t. Or, rather, he wasn’t sure that he could bring himself to. But if he started trying to win, if he started paying attention to the District, to the children… Well, he might actually start to feel uncomfortable every time he went home, the faces of the parents of the children reminding him he had failed.

“Of course that this is just common sense and not exactly a punishment for the... regrettable loss of temper that Miss Black displayed." He paused as if he was thinking of what punishment to doll out for Bellatrix, even though Tom was pretty sure that he had his little speech all planned out the second he left his mansion, if not before, "Quite unintentionally, I'm sure, the both of you have given me a perfect idea for you to compensate the Capitol for the mistakes you've made. The Appointments shall provide Miss Black with the perfect method of doing so.”

Tom almost lost his composure. Of course. Of course, he would use this particular punishment. How incredibly apropos. President Grindelwald elegantly turned around, ready to leave the penthouse after having completed his job of humiliating and selling Bellatrix. Tom stood his ground, and for the first time since the President had entered, he turned his eyes towards Bellatrix, to see if the damage was apparent in her face. What he saw in her eyes was not desolation or shame. It was something else, directed at Grindelwald as her eyes never left his back.

Hatred. He was startled to realize. Bellatrix hated the President.

She quickly bowed her head to hide her gaze when, quite of nowhere, President Grindelwald seemed to remember something and he turned around, his lizard-like eyes coldly looking at them with a calculating look begetting a man thirty years younger. He leaned against his cane with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Did you know your family came from Twelve, originally?” For a moment both he and Bellatrix looked at Grindelwald confused, because it appeared that he was talking of Bellatrix Black, “Ah, yes, Miss Black, your family used to have the most charming grey eyes, common enough in the Seam, no, Mister Riddle?” Tom could do nothing but nod, and Grindelwald chuckled as if he had heard the funniest joke that Tom couldn’t remember making, “When your family agreed to betray the Rebellion, Miss Black,” and wasn’t that another sucker punch for her, her family being part of the Rebellion seemed unreal, “your Grandfather thought it would be appropriate to change the colour of your eyes to white to match our seal and our troops, and your father followed him and so-on. Your sister and your father had the whitest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Father and sister - not sisters \- and Tom had a feeling the President wasn’t talking of Narcissa. He was clearly implying that he had seen to her family’s execution personally. Bellatrix swallowed loudly and her hands clenched to fists, and Tom had the irrational need to grasp her hand so she wouldn’t punch the President of Panem in the face and doom both of them. He forced himself to relax, Bellatrix had been playing this game since she was born. She knew what she was doing. He hoped.

He held back a sigh of relief when nothing but a slight relaxation of her shoulder was all that forthcoming of her. But President Grindelwald wasn’t finished, though. Of course, he wasn’t.

“Ah, how appropriate that there seems to be a little bit of grey left in you, child. After all, one always goes back to their roots, don’t they?” He didn’t even deign to be subtle, merely looked meaningfully at Tom. He was threatening him, Tom realized, and if Bellatrix was pale before, she looked close enough to dead now, “Well, a good day, Mister Riddle. Miss Black.”

And with that, the man was gone, leaving behind a panicking, scared Bellatrix for Tom to deal with, or so he thought. Because the moment President Grindelwald closed the door of the penthouse behind him and Tom made a move to comfort Bellatrix, she seemed to just snap.

To his credit, Tom did not flinch when Bellatrix grabbed a nearby heavy vase and hurled it against the wall, in a throw so perfect that when the vase shattered into large pieces the shards and the force of the throw made the three paintings — them too covered in glass — clatter to the floor. A litany of glass, wood from the frames and plaster littered the marbled white floor, but destruction didn’t seem to appease Bellatrix quite yet.

He almost took a step back when he saw her grab another vase — Gods, why did they have so many vases? — but he knew she would not risk him. Something that proved true when everything seemed to hit her at once — eyes wet with tears, lips bitten to stop sobs — forcing her to let go of the second vase. She would never risk him, hurting herself was another question, Tom observed as he saw her crumpling, sobbing, to the ground right on top of the shattered glass, the shards cutting into her skin deep enough to draw blood.

He knelt and held her as she trashed and screamed herself hoarse with torn between rage and grief. He held himself steadfast, kneeling on the cold marble floor of the penthouse with tiny pieces of glass perforating his skin wherever it came in contact with the floor. Blood coated the white floor with a vengeance, marring the outwardly pristine floor with the pure blood of the Capitol's darling, it too as tainted as the facade they stood on. Tom tightened his grip on Bellatrix, even as she started shaking instead of trashing and the danger of hurting herself diminished with each passing second, and wondered what would happen after today. It seemed like the turning point. But for what, Tom could only guess.

That year he didn’t go to Twelve again, not until the reaping the next summer, and contented himself with the fact that whenever she had an Appointments, at least, she could always come back to him.

**Author's Note:**

> So, good? Bad? Tell me what you think!


End file.
